#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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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
Iâm not sureâ since Recom quaritch is a â different â 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 heâs like â sheâs been thinking of me all these years â
But than he starts accepting that heâs not humanâ heâs naâvi. Heâs a different person, so heâll start feeling conflicted and at one point might even view the dog tags with hatred.
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master-list | slashers & thrillers

(key...)Â Â gender neutral--1 | they/them--2 | he/him--3 | romantic--4Â | 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 âdeweyâ 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:Â Youâve 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.
Thatâs what you tell yourself, what you remind yourself, in the moment after you tell him:
âItâs over, Ransom. Weâre done. Iâm leaving.â
It couldnât 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?
Youâd 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 wasnât 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.
âWell, damn. This sucks.â You can see the indent of his tongue in his cheek before he clicks and shrugs. âGuess thatâs it then. Need help packing your shit or what?â
His response is so blasĂ© that youâre genuinely shocked and, you must admit, a little hurt. He didnât 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 itâs your turn to look surprised, and you shake your head.
âNo, I⊠already took care of it. Itâs at a storage locker.â You didnât 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 youâd 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. Heâs looking around the room, avoiding direct eye contact in a clear show of his discomfort. Itâs weird seeing Ransom like this--the normally self-assured, cocky Ransom, looking for any excuse not to look at you.
âSo⊠see ya around?â 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 youâd 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 didnât 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 youâd 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 wouldnât 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, donât worry about it. Iâll 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. âHello?â Your breath catches but in an instant, when the message continues, you feel stupid. Itâs 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 Iâve 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 Iâll 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 youâre back at your old job, feet aching with falling apart shoes, forced to deal with people returning old toasters laden with crumbs, calming theyâd âjust bought it the day before and it didnât work.â
"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 youâd 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, thereâs no WIFi, and thereâs 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 itâs 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 didnât dare use your debit card or any credit cards with Ransomâs name or information on them.
You just need some sleep. A good nightâs 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 wouldnât let you have a clean, lets-still-be-friends type of break. Not after all the times heâd pressured you into staying, manipulating you with words and gifts and promises, promises. Promises that were worth shit.Â
The sheet crinkles underneath you as you scroll through your messages. Youâd texted a few formerly close friends about the breakup earlier, hoping that theyâd maybe want to reconnect. So far, youâd been left on read, blocked, and received only one response: âNew number, who is this?â
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 (heâs controlling, he doesnât want me to meet with friends without permission, he tells me what I can and canât 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 whoâd 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 didnât want to deal annoyed texts or voice messages accusing you of clearly cheating on him or hating him because why else wouldnât you be willing to send him so much as a sexy selfie to your boyfriend?Â
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-workerâs, and how many blowjobs you had to give to get said new office because you didnât 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 thatâs why it took so long to leave. Â You were waiting for him to stop being Ransom and start being the fantasy of Ransom youâd 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 wonât exactly be indulging in all the luxuries you had with Ransom, but your job pays you well, and you wonât ever have to go back to living hand-to-mouth like you did before. You wonât have to worry about late bills and debt collectors and landlords who come late at night and demand inspections while youâre 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.
**
âIâm sorry, but the account has been closed.â
You feel years of customer service training cracking underneath your skin. You canât freak out. If you freak out, they wonât feel inclined to go the extra mile. You know this, from firsthand experience.
So you take a shaky breath. âUm, this just--it isnât possible. Itâs a joint account. Iâm on the account. There was money in there, you can check--â
âIâm sorry, but the funds were transferred and account has been closed by the other account holder. Thereâs nothing I can do. I suggest contacting the other party in the account.â
You swallow and nod and walk away, this time having been smart enough to keep your sunglasses on to hide your humiliated expression. Why didnât 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. Youâd agreed because it was so generous, something youâd 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 donât 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 youâd paid him a retainer fee months ago, and Ransom couldnât do anything about that. You could at least get a basic consult out of the retainer.
The call ringing sounds muffled through your carâs speaker but it isnât long before someone answers, and youâre transferred to the lawyer Ransom insisted you have--gotta have a lawyer when you have money, babe--and that you hadnât spoken to in ages.
âHi,â you say, voice artificially bright, âthis is--â
You donât get a chance to finish.
âI know who this is.â The lawyer sounds tired, and his tone is curt and clipped. âIâm sorry. Iâm no longer able to provide you with any legal counsel.â
You almost miss a red light and regret calling the office while you were driving.
âIs this about the debit card? Because I paid the retainer months ago--â
âThe retainer has been refunded into the connected checking account.â
Your voice looses its artificial cheeriness and you stumble over your words in frustration. âThatâs--itâs--it was a joint account, which is why I called, Ransom drained it and took everything. Isnât there something we can do, because that was my money too and--â
âI am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel.â
You want to cry. You hate crying, as an adult. It makes you feel weak. Especially on the phone.
âI donât understand. Why was the retainer refunded? Did--did someone call you?â
He clears his throat into the phone. âI am no longer able to provide you with legal counsel. Goodbye.â
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 couldnât even talk to a lawyer, because--shock--Ransom made sure you couldnât. Everything was in Ransomâs 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.
Wasnât it? He was shockingly not judgmental about the state of your finances, and while youâd put up some protest, you didnât exactly argue with him when he suggested wiping your debts clean and getting your credit back up. And considering that he wasnât immune to needing a bail-out now and then (late night calls to his grandfather, snarky comments at his parentâs 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 youâd 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. Youâve known this. You need to call him and meet with him and make him realize how ridiculous heâs being, and heâll sigh and snark but heâll 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. Thereâs 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 didnât shower, opting instead to rinse your face with what was left of a water bottle youâd 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--canât 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 canât help but feel that something is⊠off.Â
No one calls out to greet you, though that can be easily attributed to the jealousy over your promotion. Youâd 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 youâd already been promoted to senior management. That wasnât technically Ransomâs 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 werenât for your skills, the connections wouldnât have made a difference. Right?Â
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 donât look that bad, you reason. Just tired. But who wouldnât 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.
Thereâs a firm knock at your office door and you glance at the mirror for a final once over before opening it up. Itâs your boss. Did you have a meeting? You try to do a mental scan of something youâve missed, but nothing comes to mind.
âHi,â you say, wavering with uncertainty at the threshold. Should you invite him in? âWhat can I do for you? We didnât have a meeting, did we?â You let yourself chuckle, dry and quick. âIâm sorry, Iâm a bit scattered this morning.â
Your boss doesnât 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.
âIâd like to keep this conversation private.â 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.
âWe have to let you go.â
The words donât register.
âGo where?â
Itâs only after you say it that you realize what he said, what it meant, and you feel like a colossal moron in every respect.
âItâs not working out,â he continues, staring at your desk and not at your face. âSince youâve only been in this position for a month, you donât quality for senior severance. The best we can do is to pay you what youâve earned this week.â
Your mouth is so dry that you donât know if you can talk. Your hand fumbles on your desk for a water bottle youâd left overnight, and thatâs 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.
âDid he put you up to this?â You whisper. âDid Ransom tell you to fire me?â
You know he wonât answer. But you stare at him so fervently that he canât 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. Heâd probably pull the chair up to the desk and put his feet on it, just to be an ass. Then heâd 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?
âThis is absolute bullshit,â you say, finally, voice dry and hoarse and bitter. You want to say youâll be contacting a lawyer. That this wonât stand. But you know--and he knows--that thereâs nothing you can do.
Your boss stands, slow, and sighs again. âIâm sorry it had to end this way. Pack up your things as quickly as possible.â
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 donât have much effort left.
**
Your things consisted of a handful of personal items, little touches youâd brought in to make your office feel more like âyou.â 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 thatâs quickly quelled by the realization that you canât afford to buy new things, or any things, at this point.
You donât 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 youâre 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 âSorryâ and he probably is, but heâs 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 didnât block you. She would answer, if you called, because she knew you didnât 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 arenât shaking.
The man who answers is the same one you talked to on the phone before, when setting up your move. âHello, MoveânSecure Storage Company. This is Steve speaking. How many I help you?â
âHi Steve!â You hate how chipper you sound. âI actually just got a few missed calls from you guys, Iâm sorry, I was in the office and--â
âOh.â His voice is surprisingly flat, suddenly flat, losing its customer service inflection in an instant before picking it back up. âYes. Weâve been trying to reach you. For confirmation, the storage locker your purchased is A443, correct?â
You fumble in your purse for the receipt and confirm the little numbers printed neatly on the paper. âYes, A443. Is everything okay?â
âNo, itâs not.â Youâre grateful that you didnât have much for breakfast because you know it would be clawing its way back up at this point. âThe card you gave us for the storage fee was declined.â
The debit card. Youâd 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.
âIs there another card you can give us?â
âNo, but...â You say, because no, there is not. There is not a card. There is not a job. There is nothing. âBut if you could just hold my stuff, Iâll be there in less than a hour to get it.â
âWe donât hold items,â Steve tells you, a rehearsed banality to his tone. âYour items are currently outside the unit.â
You instinctively want to yell at Steve but, fuck fuck fuck, youâve been there, behind the counter, dealing with people who couldnât pay for shit and then had the nerve to get upset with you. âAll of it?â You ask, your voice cracking slightly.
âYes.â
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 donât 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 donât remember if you say âthank you,â because youâre speed-walking down the hallway and following the signs and it isnât 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 âyou.â
The problem is immediate: You canât fit all this in your car. You donât 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 donât 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 youâll 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 doesnât bother holding the door open for you. You mention that youâre 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 itâs 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 donât know Steve or care what he thinks. He doesnât look up when you walk in and itâs just as well, since youâre only heading back to the A-400s and donât 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.
âMy stuff,â you spit out, âMy stuff is gone! Someone took it!â
Steve shrugs. âSorry.â He points to a sign behind him: âWe are not responsible for the loss of items inside or outside storage lockers.â
âAre you fucking kidding?â You canât the anger in your voice this time. âYou just watched someone walk off with my stuff and didnât say anything?â
Steve raises his eyebrows. âIf it was that important, you shouldnât have left it here. Or you should have given us another card.â
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 youâd managed to collect; you picked the lightest stuff, first. And in retrospect it was things that didnât 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 wouldnât be enough to put you up in an apartment. Youâll have to live in your car. Until they repossess it for lack of payment.
You donât have your bank account, your credit cards, your job, a place to stay, or your personal possessions. And soon, you wonât 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 youâd 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 doesnât bring up that you didnât come back with more boxes, like you said you would. Â
Youâre surprised at how grateful you feel for the dingy hotel room now that you wonât 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 havenât had time to change it up yet. Heâs grinning. Youâre smiling. Itâs 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 canât.
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 werenât exceptionally close, but he seemed to like you well enough. Heâd 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 Ransomâs 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--itâs 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 didnât 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. Itâs a photo and your curiosity gets the better of you as you click the notification.
âWhat the fuck?â
Heâs sent you a photo of his car, trunk open. Itâs filled with boxes, odds-and-ends. Itâs filled with your stuff.
You text him: What??
He texts back: Hey. Iâm in front of the hotel. Come out? Bring your suitcase. :P
Itâs your stuff. Itâs his car. Heâs here. All reason is thrown aside as you grab your suitcase and purse and rush down the hallway, ignoring the ownerâs 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 hotelâs glass double doors. Heâs 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.
âWhat the fuck, Ransom, what the fuck is your problem--â
âHey, hey,â he says, hands up in defense, âYouâre not even going to thank me for picking up your stuff?â
You feel suddenly, impossibly rooted to the spot.
âWhat do you--what? You took my stuff?â
He shrugs. âCâmon, did you really think Iâd just leave your stuff in some shitty storage unit? Someone wouldâve taken it if I didnât get there first.â
You swallow. âWhy?â You ask, because Ransom never does anything for no reason. Or so youâve learned.
His expression loses a bit of its cocky casualness. He tilts his head a bit, looking at you as if youâve asked a particularly offensive question.
âWhy do you think?â
To lord it over you? To make you think your stuff was gone and make you worried, sick, crazy?
âI donât know,â is what you settle for in the end. âI really, really donât. You--â You lick your lips, and try to calm down, calm the pitter-patter of your heart, and think before you speak. âYouâve done some pretty messed up stuff today. My job?â The last question comes out soft and pained, and you know your eyes are starting to tear up.
âHey.â 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. âHey, câmon. Donât cry on me.â
You know this Ransom. The Ransom that holds you and pets your hair and offers to get Thai food delivered even though he doesnât like it just to make you happy.
He puts his hand on your shoulder and you jerk it away. âDonât.â That Ransom is a fantasy. Or an incomplete version, the version that pretends he doesnât lie and cheat and hurt you in more ways than one. âDonât you fucking dare, especially not after what you pulled today. My job? My job, Ransom? Youâre a--a fucking asshole.â
He puts his hands up again, defensive, and takes a step back. But he doesnât return to his car, and stays just a few steps in front of you.
âLook. Call me an asshole. Sure, fine, I can admit that. But do you know what else I am?â
He waits a beat, waits for you to look at him, before he continues. âIâm a realist. I like facts. And the fact is? You arenât much without me. No job, no credit cards, no bank account. Without me, youâre just some broke chick scrambling to get an apartment in the shittiest part of town, working a dead-end job that donât pay shit. With me thoughâŠ. â
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 didnât even dream about attending before you met him. Phone calls with shakers in the industry and social media requests from people youâd never dream youâd meet. Connections that meant something, a career path, dinner parties with people who could offer tangible benefits to your career and your life.
It wasnât that he spoiled you. He wasnât a sugar daddy. You werenât 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 werenât 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 wasnât 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.
âSo?â Ransomâs voice cuts through your thoughts. âAre you going to come home or,â 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 didnât 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 didnât 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 wouldnât you just make a fine-ass addition his crazy family. Ransom who took care of you, now that you had no one else.
âWhat do you want me to do?â 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. âWell, the first thing is to get down on your kneesâŠâ
You feel your eyes practically bugging out.
âWhat the fuck, Ransom?â
He laughs. He always did have a nice laugh.
âIâm 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. Letâs go get some burgers, Iâm starving.â
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 canât do more than glance at him as humiliation and anxiety and just the smallest bit of relief washes over you. Itâs been less than 24 hours since you broke up, and here you are--again.
Heâs 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 canât decide which to pick.
Instead, he puts his hand on your thigh. Gives it a squeeze. Hard, bordering on painful. Â Heâs staring straight ahead, at the worn-out sign on the hotelâs front door, one hand gripping the flesh of your thigh. He looks good in profile. âDonât ever try to pull something like that again. I mean it. I really mean it.â
You turn, glance out the window, familiar tears at the edge of your eyes.
âI wonât,â 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.
âGood girl,â 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.
âLetâs get dinner and get home. You have some unpacking to do.â
#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? đ
đ Loved this series and this finale! So good âșïž
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:Â 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 didnât know how far heâd 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. Itâs to make sure that your one-night stand stays that way, Ransom telling you he doesnât 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. Youâve 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.
âR-Ransom? Iâm finished,â you call out, not realizing heâs behind you, clearing his throat as you jump.
âIt looks good,â 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. âYouâve always did do a great job at cleaning up after yourself when you lived here. But you arenât done yet.â
âWhat? But,â you pause, looking around the kitchen. âI 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.â
âMm, I know. So youâre only half finished. Thereâs still the upstairs, remember?â Ransom lifts your head up, making you look into his blue eyes. âOr did you forget?â
âUpstairs?â you blink owlishly, Ransom nodding his head.
Keep reading
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Masterlist
I donât 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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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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ê° Â°FANDOMS I WRITE°ê±
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
ê° Â°CHARACTER/S I WRITE°ê±
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)
ê° Â°AU'S I WRITE°ê±
Any !! As long as it isn't too gorey or dark, due to me being uncomfy with such things
[Reminder:: I wonât 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
Weâre 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 Iâm 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 âIronheadâ 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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Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]
Title: Emotional Loan [Yandere Ransom Drysdale x Reader]
Synopsis: You shouldnât be this nervous about telling your boyfriend that you want to transfer to a college out of state. Ransom is nothing if not generous with you--so why is your stomach in knots?
Word Count: 3144
notes: yandere, sexism, emotional abuse
You shouldnât be this nervous. Really. Ransom has been nothing but generous with you, and in turn youâve been patient--maybe too patient, maybe too forgiving, sometimes--with him. Itâs only fair that he extends that patience to you, especially with something as serious, as important, as your future.
So why does the thought of telling him about your plan to switch to a new college make you feel like youâre going to throw up?
You puff out your cheeks and stretch your arms across the breakfast table, leaning down and wishing you could ask someone else to tell him in person. But the thought is ridiculous, and you push it away in favor of rehearsing what youâre going to say for the millionth time since you made up your mind.
You will tell him about the need to change your degree if you want to ever be in the contending for a museum curator position in the future. You will tell him about the fact that the best place to get this specific degree, the one that will put you right in the open arms of the internship that leads to your dream curator field, is in California. You will tell him about the apartments youâve already inspected. You will tell him about the fact that he can visit anytime, that you will visit him, that you can text and video call and vacation together. You will tell him that you love him and you want to make this work.
You will tell him all these things⊠and yet. Yet while you can rehearse the words, rehearse how youâll push your printed out papers showing exactly what you need to do and why towards him so he can see youâre telling the exact truth, you canât rehearse how Ransom will react. You try to imagine, but all that comes up is a blurry, grey blank.
Is he going to freak out? Get pissed? Or worse--not care at all? Maybe youâve overestimated how much Ransom has invested in this relationship. Maybe heâd rather cut you loose than deal with a long distance relationship. Maybe the second you mention that youâll be moving to California, heâll be mentally checking a list for someone local to hook up with the minute youâre gone.
Youâre not sure which reaction would scare you more.
But you donât have much time to think about it, because you hear him padding down the stairs, hear the din of some video heâs still watching, probably whatever he put on while he was in the shower. You canât bear to look up, and you thumb aimlessly, nervously around your phoneâs apps while you listen to the sound of him scraping the eggs and bacon youâd cooked onto a plate.
He plops down in the seat across from you and you glance up. He catches your eye and gives a tight-lipped, tired smile. He was out late. But heâd texted you about staying out late earlier in the evening, so you didnât feel you had the right to be mad--thatâs the condition youâd given him, after all, when heâd accused you of being controlling. When heâd called you a nag and accused you of being jealous of other women, women he had no feelings for.
âI just want to know when youâre going to be out late so I donât stay up half the night thinking youâre dead somewhere.â And so he did--let you know--and you swallowed down your feelings of suspicion at his late night adventures.
Maybe⊠maybe this is a bad time to tell him. Maybe you should wait for a day when heâs had more sleep. Maybe you should run your thoughts by someone else, get a second opinion. Youâre focusing on the table, on the light from the phone screen, anything to avoid looking up and starting the dreaded conversation.
âWhatâre those papers for, babe?â
Shit.
Your hands tremble just a bit when you set the phone down, and the way it vibrates against the table mimics the way your stomach feels right now. You suck in a breath and look up, but you canât make eye contact just yet and you push the words out, stumbling and breathy and rapid, without stopping to breathe until youâve said your peace.
âRansom this is really hard for me but we need to talk about something and I donât want you to be mad but I need to change schools if Iâm ever going to get a shot at a curator position and the best school for this is in California and I know itâs going to be hard but I love you--I love you and we can make long distance work if you want and if you donât want well--well I donât know what Iâll do then but I just wanted to let you know now because Iâve got to turn in my application next week and please please try to see this from my point of view because itâs all Iâve ever wanted and you know that.â
You take a shaky breath and hold your hands together on top of the table, clasped and shaking from the adrenaline and anxiety coursing through you. You look up at Ransom with trepidation, hoping that heâs not mad--or indifferent.
But heâs neither. He simply looks⊠confused.
He simply stares at you for a moment, a dumbfounded expression on his face as he processes all of the words that just came rapid-fire out of your mouth.
âCalifornia?â Is all he says, finally.
You take the opportunity to push the stack of printed papers towards him. âThese are⊠itâs⊠well, emails from people in the industry, some important articles about getting positions at museums. About where you have to go. Oh, thereâs apartment listings there, too.â You even printed out detailed information about the qualifications for acceptance, and put them in a neat little table next to your own academic and experience record. You were a shoo-in, and you didnât feel the need to be humble about it.
He grabs the stack and starts thumbing through, not saying another word as he seemingly thoroughly reads everything youâve printed out. Your stomach feel like floating lead, heavy and flipping. You canât tell what heâs thinking or feeling, and heâs not giving you anything but a concentrated look at he looks through the statements, the listings, the plan youâve outlined so neatly.
He finally sets the stack back down and simply stares at it for a few moments. Taking it in. Taking his thoughts in. Finally, Ransom looks up at you and the intensity in his eyes makes your stomach drop. He doesnât look mad. He looks--and you hate it--disappointed, sad even.
âLookâŠâ He sighs, eyebrows lifting as his gaze drifts away before settling back on you. âIâm not going to lie and pretend Iâm okay with this. Iâm not. Jesus, babe. California? Four years?â
âItâs no--â you interrupt, but he holds up his hand and you stop.
âBut. But, but,â he lightly pounds his fist on the stack of tables, an almost nervous gesture in your eyes. âItâs what you want? What you need for your career? Thereâs no other way for you to get this--â he waves his hands around, âmuseum gig youâre after?â
You nod, unable--no, afraid--to speak, in case your voice is too tight with emotion.
âThen I guess I can deal with it.â
âWhat?â You blurt the words out.  You expected⊠an argument. Or for him to blow you off, make it seem like you werenât serious. Or, as youâd admitted to yourself earlier, for him to throw you away and find someone who wouldnât make him wait around. Not⊠acceptance.
He laughs at your reaction and your stomach feels lighter, the tension in your body starting to fizzle away. â
âItâs not like I have to worry about getting the money to come visit, right? And hey,â he continues, âif you need someone to put in a good word to this school⊠maybe throw some cash at a dean or somethingâŠâ He raises his eyebrows, wiggling them a little in a way that makes you snort.
You lean forward and nab one of the lukewarm pieces of scrambled eggs from his plate and pop it into your mouth. âSince youâre offering to help, I could use someone to check over my applicationâŠâ
**
The envelope is too small. Itâs way too small. Why did they make the envelope so damn small? Maybe the acceptance letter was sent on its own, and all of the other information--the giant packet telling you where to send payments and sign up for courses--would be sent to your email. But the thought of checking your email and seeing nothing makes you feel sick, so you keep your phone next to you on the table.
âYou gotta open it,â Ransom says, soft and casual. He doesnât move from his place beside you on the sofa, watching you with a neutral look. He probably knows why the envelope is too small, but he wonât say the words out loud--just like you wonât. If you say it out loud, then itâs true.
There's nothing else for you to do except confront the truth, and you rip open the envelope and pull out the folded paper with far too few printed words on the page.
Rejected. Outright. Completely. Not a fit for the school or the program.
If you werenât sitting on the couch, you would have fallen over. As it is, Â you feel like the world is collapsing, like the sofa underneath you is melting into the floor and taking you with it.
âI donât understand.â You can only manage to whisper, voice small--reflecting the way the rest of you feels. Small and falling and stupid.
Ransom takes the paper from your hand, and you donât bother keeping a grip on it. You register the fact that heâs put an arm around your shoulders, but you can barely feel it through the numbness of rejection.
âWhat the fuck,â he says, voice louder next to your ear. It makes you shrink in more, even though his anger isnât directed at you. âWhat the fuck.â
Itâs you want to say, what you would say, if you had the strength. The energy. But the absolute, complete way that your future has suddenly become an unknown blank has left you stuck and heavy.
It doesnât make sense. Your transcript was perfect--should have been perfect. You should have gotten in. You got top grades and references from professors and a list of relevant experiences that most students wouldnât have until the end of their degree.
âIâm going to call them and find out what-the-fuck,â Ransom says suddenly, getting up with a jerking motion and walking towards the kitchen, where his phone rests on the counter. âNo,â he says, clicking his tongue. âBetter yet. Iâll call my grandfather. Heâll know how to convince this so-called top school that they made a big mistake.â
The thought makes your head spin. âRansom, donât.â Youâre not a child. But you feel like one, like you just failed a math quiz and your dad is calling to find out why the teacher doesnât know the quiz answers from his ass. âYou canât just call a school and make them accept someone.â
Your legs feel wobbly when you stand up, and Ransom practically swoops back to your side to hold you steady. He leads you back down on the sofa and you feel yourself accepting the loss, accepting that your dream is gone, or at least altered.
He squeezes an arm around you when you finally begin to cry, and for the moment you feel better, less worthless, less hopeless. It was just one rejection. One egg. You canât put every egg in one basket, as they say.
You rest your head against his shoulder and sigh into it, enjoying the warmth and closeness. A feeling of luck pings at your heart. Youâre really lucky to have a guy like Ransom. Heâs not perfect, and sometimes you fight, and sometimes he does things that hurt you, but--are you perfect? Do you do things that hurt him, too? Donât put all your eggs in one basket, and donât look a gift horse in the mouth.
With comfort comes clarity. The world isnât ending. Your future isnât blank. There are other options.
You feel almost perked up when you speak: âI guess I can apply to other schools. Maybe it wonât be the exact one I wanted but⊠thereâs some in Chicago, even Michigan, that might work.â
Ransomâs arm tightens around you, slightly but firmly enough to notice.
âBabe, youâre not serious.â
You pull back enough to look up at his face.
âWhat do you mean?â
You can see Ransom fighting with his annoyed expression, trying to soften it up. You dimly recognize that you should be grateful--you know how snarky he can get with others when heâs not putting on a filter.
âYour transcript was fucking impeccable. I saw it! I sent it in for you! And you still didnât get in. You think these other schools are going to accept youâŠ.â He trails off, leaning his head back, looking disappointed of all things. Disappointed in you? Or the school?  You canât tell. All you know is that it makes you feel low again, like youâre nothing, falling into the floor with a sense of worthlessness.
âIâm not tryinâ to be an asshole,â he says, and thereâs a flicker of doubt in your mind about the truth of that statement. âIâm just trying to be honest. I donât want you to have to deal with getting rejected from all those other schools, too. You know what I mean?â
You swallow down against the tightness in your throat. âTheir standards might not be as strict. I know theyâre not as strict. I could get in.â
He looks down at you, the same intense gaze from the morning that you told him about your plan on his face. The gaze that let you know he believed in you and would do anything--even go long distance for almost half a decade--for you. A gaze that let you know he was serious, honest, giving you his thoughts with an open heart. âKeyword. Could.â
Itâs like a slap to the face.
âAre you saying Iâm too stupid to get in anywhere?â You start to pull away, but his arms donât let up and so all you can do is turn your head away, cheeks hot with humiliation. âDonât you support me?â
âJesus, no--and Jesus, yes.â Annoyance is bleeding into his voice and you wish youâd just ripped up the envelope and avoided the entire conversation. You keep your eyes on the floor, humiliating tears blurring your vision as you stare at the sliver of a stain from soda that you never got out of the cream colored rug.
âYou are the smartest chick I know,â he says, voice a little softer, now. At least heâs trying to stop being an ass. âSeriously, you are. Maybe youâre just a--a different kind of smart. A Â kind of smart these schools donât give a shit about. Do something here with that smartness, then. Stay where youâre at. Fuck, talk to the dean and tell them you want to to an independent degree or something. But donât get your heart broken a million times when you could just make the most of what youâve got here.â He squeezes, affectionate. âWhat weâve got here.â
Itâs not what you want. Itâs not viable. You canât get to where you want to be if you stay where you are. But heâs right--heâs right, isnât he, because if you canât get into a school with a nearly picture-perfect record and recommendations and experience oozing out of your ears, will there be any school that accepts you?
And if you stay here, Ransom is here, and youâre already in school here, and maybe you wonât get anywhere near a curator position (but you want to, itâs your dream, why give up on your dream?) but you can do something else, surely. Ransom will help you, like he always does. You might fight and argue and sometimes it gets intense but he always lends you a shoulder to cry on, doesnât he? Heâs always honest with you, even when it hurts. Even when it hurts like this, crushing and disappointing and sharp.
He pulls you closer to him, and this time you donât fight as you rest your head back on his shoulder.
âSo?â He starts to gently stroke your hair, the way he knows you like it.
You nod, sniffling against the last of the tears, unable--afraid--to say anything.Â
âThatâs my girl,â he says, before gently flicking your forehead and reaching for his phone. âHey, letâs go see a movie tonight. My treat.â
You nod against his shirt, unable to do more than mumble back, âOkay.â Okay, okay, okay. Itâs a soft, unceremonious end to your California dreams.
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Oh god. Ohhhhhh Ransom, what are you doing?!
Nocturnal - One
Words: 3.5K
Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Language, mentions of past cheating, a hint of degradation, brief assault, bribery, manipulation, dub-con kissing.
Notes: A little world building and some hints for what is to come for the next chapter. I expect this mini series to be completed quickly.
Nocturnal Series Masterlist
Summary | You knew Ransom Drysdale was no good even after you broke up with him. You just didnât know how far heâd go to show you.
Ransom has nothing but time. He waits for you, sipping a scotch while the minutes tick by because he knows that youâre fighting against the very instinct that drew you to him in the first place.
Your little stunt at the restaurant hadnât gone in your favor and pretending that he didnât exist had cost you a tip and a little sass from Ransomâs new girlfriend, who was currently unimpressed at your attitude. He saw the devastation in your eyes when your manager came to discuss the issue, how your head bowed, and your lips had formed into a frown while he chastised you.
At the knock of the door, he waits, leaning back in his chair, content to let the minutes tick by. Youâre just as stubborn as he is and he knows this. He knows that youâre aware heâs inside and a dark smile spreads across his lips at your voice on the other side of the door.
âRansom?â Your voice is low, barely audible.
Itâs the shame, Ransom thinks. You donât want anyone else to hear.
âCome in,â he tells you, languidly taking a sip when you enter.
Youâve been crying. Your thin coat does nothing to keep you from the cold, still slightly shivering when you close the door behind you, your gloves worn down and stained that you shove into your coat pockets when you reach him. He sees it in your eyes - the dejection and guilt that shines in your irises under the light.
âGlad you came to your senses,â Ransom begins, placing the glass back down. âHow much money do you need?â
You shift in your scuffed up ankle boots, not looking at him as you reply.
âFive hundred,â you answer softly. âThatâs it.â
Ransom arches a brow at your answer, humming while he crosses one leg over the other, studying you like prey.
âYou told me a thousand over the phone.â
âI-Iâll do a payday loan for the rest.â
Keep reading
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ransom is like perfect for the yandere trope, so i was wondering how would it go with like an established relationship with him (obviously heâs made your life revolve around him to the point that heâs all you have) and you maybe have a new co-worker, a very attractive man that youâve started to befriendâŠand what ransom would do đłđłđł cause heâs unhinged, possessive, and jealous all at once
Pairing: Yandere!Ransom Drysdale x Latina!Reader
Word Count: 218
Warnings: Jealousy, spanking
DO NOT COPY MY WORK OR INTERACT IF YOUâRE 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 YOUâRE BLOCKED! NO POSTS? BLOCKED! IF YOUâRE A MINOR? BLOCKED!!!!
Ransom's the type of pretty boy who doesn't play with other pretty boys, meaning if y/n's new co-worker did so much as look at anywhere but her eyes, he'll scoop them out with a spork. So imagine his rage when he finds that they're best friends, but Y/N reassures him it's ok.
It's definitely not, you know how vile men can be? He can't let his Bunny be tainted by such scum, she belongs to him and him only! The man, what was his name? It rhymed with bile...ah yes, Kyle. Who the fuck names their kid Kyle? Ransom visibly shivered at the thought.
The door opens, signaling Y/N had finally arrived home from the office, wearing red heels and a matching red dress and blazer. A bit fancier than usual and this made Ransom's blood boil. In three steps he's got her pinned to the wall, one hand tugging her skirt up and smacking her ass. " You dressing up for him now?!"
Y/N's caught off guard but groans, ass stinging from the slap. " Ransom please, it's not--" Though her words fall short as he smacks her ass again.
" If you really wanna show off, you'll show off these fucking marks I'm giving you. Let him know you're only my bunny to play with. "
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#yas answers an ask !!#yas loves zee !!#Yandere!Ransom Drysdale x Latina!Reader#Ransom Drysdale x Latina!Reader#Ransom Drysdale x F!Reader#jealousy#Ransom Drysdale fanfiction#yas did a mini fic !!
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