#walt thrombey | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

levans44 · 6 months

Text

Tipsy, smutty headcanons w/ cevans characters (pt. 2)

(aka: how Ransom Drysdale would fuck you after a family dinner goes south)

He raises the subject on a lazy Sunday morning, over toasted English muffins and runny eggs on his sunny kitchen island.

Throws out the question like it’s a casual suggestion, but you know it’s a bigger deal than he’s letting on—in the short time you’ve known Ransom Drysdale, you’ve managed to pick up on a few of his tells: a quick tug at his collar, tongue darting across his bottom lip as he glances off to the side.

You know I’d rather die than sit through dinner alone.

And when it finally sinks in that your boyfriend of barely 2 months was asking you to dinner at his family’s house, you have to take an extra long sip of coffee to process what it really means.

Though you barely knew anything about Ransom’s family, you’ve heard enough horror stories about the Drysdales and Thrombeys to last you a lifetime.

Yet, you can tell from the way Ransom’s avoiding eye contact, and the way he’s been nudging the food on his plate for the last half hour, that this means something to him (and that a lot of other things mean something to him too, despite his indifferent exterior). So, you respond with a sweet ‘I’d love to, Ran,’ leaning over the marble island to seal your promise with a kiss.

Dinner at the Thrombey manor is about as pretentious and droll as you’d expected. From the tactless queries about your family’s tax bracket to the seemingly light-hearted jabs at your career—a PhD, huh? So that must mean kids are out of the question?—the evening is littered with tense moments from the first course right up until dessert. Yet, you evade every invasive question with a breezy answer and sweet smile, reaching under the table to squeeze Ransom’s hand whenever you see him stiffen in your periphery, lips twitching with simmering rage.

Promise me you’re not gonna let them get to you.

You’d reminded him at the entrance of the mansion, straightening out the edges of his collar with a calm smile.

And Ransom keeps his promise for the entirety of the dinner, refraining from sarcastic commentary to the point where Linda Drysdale starts eyeing her son with an inquisitive brow.

It’s not until after dinner, when Walt Thrombey ceremoniously suggests drinks and cigars in the drawing room, that things start heading south.

You should’ve seen it coming—all that jealously and insecurity brewing inside Harlan’s youngest son, always walking on eggshells around his dad just to keep his job at the publishing company. Forever envious of the potential that Harlan only sees in Ransom.

So, how’s my favorite nephew doing?

Walt sighs, sinking back in his armchair with a Cuban cigar between his lips. Uncorks the extravagant 40-year old Cognac he’s been saving—anything to get a rise out ofthe black sheep of the family.

And surely enough, it only takes a couple drinks before the backhanded comments start flowing faster than the alcohol. A snarky jab at Ransom’s car, his job.

How’s that freelance… writer thing going, Ransom?

Then rubs the latest best-sellers from his publishing company all over your boyfriend’s face.

And when none of that manages to get a rise out of Ransom, Walt’s gaze shifts over to you. Grins smugly around his cigar he takes a long puff.

He shrouds the room in smoke, directing a slurred question right over at Ransom as if you aren’t even there:

So. Another flavor of the month, huh Ransom? How long do you think this one’s gonna last?

Even Richard Drysdale bristles in his seat, startled.

And you swear you see red flash across Ransom’s face as the room falls silent.

You murmur Ransom’s name, reaching over to squeeze his arm. But he beats you to the punch—grabbing your hand in one swift moment, lurching out of his seat and nearly tipping the couch over.

Eat shit, Walt.

With those words, he storms out of the room, you in tow. Slams the door behind you both, sealing the frenzy of bickering that erupts from the rest of the family:

Jesus, Walt, you really had to say that?

Ransom, honey, please—don’t go.

Really, Walter?

Oh come on, Lin, you know I was kidding!

Ransom remains silent the whole drive back, gravel crunching under the wheels of his beemer as he pulls up to his driveway. Instead of asking him to talk, you decide to let him have his space, slipping upstairs for a warm shower. God knows you needed it, after all the dirty looks Joni and Donna were flashing your way when they thought you weren’t looking.

When you walk back downstairs, you find Ransom hunched over the kitchen island, nursing a bottle of beer.

Because despite all the top shelf liquors paraded around during dinner tonight, you know Ransom’s drink of choice has always been beer.

Craft beer, to be more precise. In fact, he’s a little bit of a beer geek—growlers lining up his shelves, his fridge stocked with bottles from the best microbreweries around New England.

He pops open the top of what looks like his third drink, tossing the cap alongside the empty bottles of Treehouse littered atop his counter.

You approach him, feet sliding quietly across the wooden floor as you let your hair down, toweling off the wet ends.

Ran.

He remains silent, gaze fixed on the marble countertop as he takes another swig of his beer.

Ransom, are you still upset about what Walt said?

When he still remains motionless, you sigh, pursing your lips as you take another step forward.

He was just drunk. It didn’t bother me, really.

Slowly, he glances over at you. And when his blurry eyes come into focus, they flit down your frame. He finally opens his mouth, voice barely above a whisper.

That my sweater?

Hmm?

You pause, frowning at the question, and glance down at the knitted beige sweater enveloping your frame—his sweater, covered in so many holes and snagged threads that you’d always had poked fun at him for even keeping it around.

Oh, yeah, do you mind if borrow it? I found it in—

You’re suddenly interrupted by a dull ‘clang’ as he drop his beer down on the counter, rushing forward toward you. His hands search desperately for your waist, pulling you flush against him as his lips meet yours in a frenzied kiss.

He pulls you back into the kitchen, crowding you between the counter and his giant frame. Your eyes flutter shut, feeling his heavy breaths against your skin as his lips drag down your neck, nimble fingers dipping under the hem of your sweater. And when his palms snake around the back of your thighs, hoisting you up on the marble surface, you gasp against his mouth, gripping at his shoulders for balance.

Ran, w-what are you doing?

And without missing a beat, you feel him murmur into your pulse point:

Loving you.

Taken aback by his shameless affection, because Ransom’s never been the type to wear his heart on his sleeves, you blush, eyes flitting up to the ceiling.

Y-you’re drunk.

Maybe.

He hums, hands traveling underneath your sweater to grip at your hips, your waist, pulling you even closer to where he needs you most.

But I’ve never felt more fucking lucid in my life.

He looks you dead in the eyes, wetting two of his digits with his mouth before he reaches down.

Ran.

You murmur aimlessly into his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut at the way his palm slides against your sex, thumb rubbing slow circles against your clit as his fingers sink into your heat.

And when he decides you’ve taken enough of his torment, he lays you back on the marble countertop, loose magazines and beer bottles toppling to the floor as he carelessly shoves them aside. Shucks the sweater up to your neck so your tits are on full display, smiling at the way it makes you whine, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy with desperation.

The sharp lines of his face softened by something other than just the alcohol, his gaze flits down to the apex of your thighs, mouth inching southward as he murmurs:

You want me here, darling?

He spreads your legs wide open, arms snaking around your thighs and pulling you down to the edge of the counter.

Tongue pressed flat against your clit as he sinks two fingers into your heat, trying to coax more of those pretty little whimpers out of your mouth. Degrades you just a smidge, smirking into your cunt:

Fuck, look at you in my sweater.

Nose digging into your mound as he stares up hungrily, chasing your sweetness on his tongue.

C’mon, play with those pretty tits for me.

Pulls back just as your head starts lolling over to one side, a telltale sign that you’re on the brink. With your lips buried into the soft material of his sweater, you start to babble incoherently, broken syllables of baby, and please, and fuck.

You close, darling?

You meet his eyes from between your legs, squirming as you nod under his gaze.

p-please—Ran, need, need ta…

Mm, you’re gonna have to beg louder than that, sweetheart.

He shakes his head, flashing you a shit-eating grin as he draws feather-light circles over your clit, just enough to keep you teetering over the edge.

Please, Ransom, fuck me, I—

And when he finally lets you come, it’s the kind of toe-curling, back-arching-off-the counter orgasm that wipes your mind clean of everything that’s happened that evening. The noise that escapes your mouth is enough to reach his neighbors from down the road, his fingers curling and hitting that spot just right, flooding you with waves after waves of pleasure.

Once you finally come to, he clambers over you with a hungry snarl, giving you a bruising kiss.

You pull back, blinking up at him with an exhausted laugh as you wipe the wetness off his chin with your thumb.

He leans back down with a lazy smile, giving you another quick peck before muttering against your lips:

Move in with me.

You frown, the abruptness of his words knocking out whatever breath is left in you.

What?

He gazes back silently, expression unwavering despite the incredulous look on your face.

Mind still half-gone, you try to wrap your head around his words, eyes widening when it fully sinks in.

B-but, Ran, my dissertation—

—then we’ll get a place in Cambridge, I don’t care.

He seals his lips with a determined grin, and you know he’s made up his mind. Now, he’d do anything to try and convince you too.

And it there’s one thing you’ve come to learn about Ransom Drysdale, it’s that he never gives up easy.

He reaches forward, cupping your cheek in his palm. And the smug smile on his pretty pink lips is indication that he already knows—knows that you don’t any convincing in the first place.

Well, why don’t you think on it while I…

He smiles, crossing your ankles behind his hips as he pulls you down, hoisting you off the counter.

…give you a proper fucking upstairs?

author's note: aaand what was supposed to be a headcanon/drabble situation turned into a one shot. I just liked the setup leading up to the actual smut too much to let it go! Also, I think this is the first ransom fic I’ve ever posted?! Lmk what you think!

P.S. the point about Ransom being a beer geek is 100% canon—a fascinating tidbit that makes his character that much more endearing. (peep the new england craft beers in this scene and this hidden secret abt the position of the beer bottles!! rian johnson is truly a mastermind.)

(read pt.1 w/ steve and frank here!)

#ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale smut #ransom drysdale headcanon #chris evans characters #chris evans headcanons #headcanon #smut #knives out #chris evans

221 notes · View notes

marril96 · 2 years

Photo

Knives Out (2019)

#knives out #knivesoutedit #jacob thrombey #meg thrombey #joni thrombey #donna thrombey #walt thrombey #jaeden martell #katherine langford #toni collette #riki lindhome #michael shannon #fieryfrankie #my gifs #edit

202 notes · View notes

heli0s-writes · 1 year

Text

You’re Toxic, I’m Slipping Under

Summary: He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it. “See you next week,” he hums.

A/n: To celebrate Glass Onion coming out, here’s ol’ boy Ransom because I hate him so much :) 4.1k words. Warnings: Smut; mild degradation, spitting, daddy kink; classism; Mind Games with Ransom Hour etc. etc. Please stop reading if you’re not 18+

Your whole apartment building seems to rattle when he arrives thirty minutes late. Like raucous fanfare to announce his appearance, the door slams shut, the latch clicks loudly, and then you hear his heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.

His shoes are still on—of course they are—stomping your floorboards and dragging in dirt. You can practically see them, the usual suede loafers switched out for leather boots with the late fall chill, and probably mud-caked because he’s thankless like that.

With your attention still on your laptop, already irritated because you’ve been attempting a paper that’s only chased its tail for the last three hours, you ask, “Did you misplace your watch, Ransom?”

Turning, you show him you’re the screen reading 8:32 and blink pointedly, “Is that a yes?”

“Don’t be smart,” he snaps back. “You know I don’t like that.”

Your head’s been a mess of fog, body tense and frustrated for days, and although you’ve always prided yourself on tact and grace—patient like a saint—Ransom manages to bring out the worst. You hiss, “Take your damn shoes off, you know I don’t like that.”

You watch mutely as he does so, not without a sneer here, a shitty comment there. He takes three long steps and plops himself on your bed, hands curling into the quilt, thumbs brushing over the patchwork fabric disparagingly. He pinches a loose thread and begins to pull, tugging slowly at first, and then finding joy in unraveling a line of stitching until nearly three inches rip apart.

“I always thought you needed to replace this thing.” He twirls the string disdainfully, “It’s ugly as sin.”

He pretends he doesn’t know how you obviously love this quilt—handstitched and affectionately made, your damn initials are embroidered into the corner, after all. He’s made a game of testing your patience, gleefully punching at every button as he tries to get you to snap.

Ransom Drysdale Thrombey. You’d met him at one of the Thrombey’s family… functions. Dysfunction, you’d muttered under your breath when Walt beat his cane against the floor in a drunken tirade and Meg ran out back to wolf down a pot cookie that she was supposed to be saving for later.

She was on the cusp of a panic attack, words tumbling out like a car crash, her hand in her beret, then hair, then trembling over her maroon-painted lips.

“God, I’m so sorry— I thought we could just make a pit stop before heading out. The food’s always catered and really good— god… it’s a fucking mess.”

You waved her off because it’s not like you haven’t witnessed at least one aunt having a meltdown during holiday dinner before— family’s just like that—and tried to placate her with, “Can’t be worse than the cousin who asked if we’d be scissoring later.”

Meg’s face twisted in disgust. “Ugh, ew! Fucking Jacob! He’s a skeezy little incel— I swear he’s a moderator on one of those internet forums where they post revenge porn and upskirt vids— honestly, he was adorable two years ago. Then I guess he went through puberty and got radicalized on Youtube.”

You paused as she lit a cigarette and inhaled furiously before realizing that the two of you were thinking of two entirely different cousins.

“I meant the big one, Meg. This one went through puberty twenty years ago.”

“Ew, Ransom,” Meg frowned, “That’s even worse.”

“Ransom? What is he, a Disney villain?”

Leaves crunched behind your back and Meg looked up from flicking ash into the yard toward the sound.

“Let’s be honest, I’ve got the face of a leading man.”

Meg blew smoke at him, as if the fumes were enough to threaten his sensibilities. You figured not, he looked like a cigar smoker anyway—one of those guys who’d dedicate a whole room in their house with the humidity just right to keep them fresh. Rich people shit.

“Go away, Ransom,” she said, to clarify.

“I don’t recall addressing you, Megan.” He took a drawn-out look, lips pursing in scrutiny before lifting a brow, making a real goddamn show about it. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll bite. 400 on the dresser for an hour; you can get yourself something nice.”

You’re still not sure what it was about either your attire or attitude that allowed him to conjure up such an offer.

Maybe it was your shitty jeans and your sweater from freshman year orientation. Maybe you looked like an easy mark to tear down.

His audacity shocked out a laugh from you—a loud, abrupt guffaw that eased Meg enough for her to dip back inside to grab more from her stash. And when she was out of sight, focused on rummaging in the old clock, you responded, “Yeah, okay. I’ll bite back.”

Maybe it was an act of rebellion against your background in contrast to all this excess. The bitter aftertaste of eating bottom shelf food out of necessity for weeks at a time—those awful chicken bouillon packets and dried blocks of instant noodles your first year of college. No one paid for your schooling or housing so learning to balance an over-abundance of classes and a job because you needed to graduate early, needed to spend less money on tuition, meant that you were working yourself to death.

If Youtube radicalized Jacob, then habitually sleeping three hours a night in the campus library and skipping meals to afford textbooks while men like Ransom crashed Maserati’s for fun radicalized you.

So, sure. Game on.

He picked you up the following weekend without anyone knowing and took you somewhere expensive. It was a whirlwind of exorbitant dinners and being quietly sneered at down the straight line of his tall nose bridge. The front door to his bachelor pad shutting but not bothered with locking. Falling into the thousand-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets naked, the skylight’s beam spilling like gold-flecked champagne.

You promised yourself it meant nothing. Just an experiment of unbridled spite. If he wanted to throw money at you, hell, that’s his problem. If he wanted to fuck you, well, you’d give him the best fuck of his life— let him see that despite wealth, at the end of the day, he was flesh and blood trembling for the right stroke.

And sure, he trembled, but it was your mistake to pare it down so simply.

Ransom juggled fuck buddies much longer than you’d been fucking at all. He knew it was best with the right amount of emotion involved. Just enough to yearn. If he laid roses at your feet, kissed your knees featherlight and worked his way up to your jaw, cradled the back of your head, nosed the pulse of your wrist, your collarbones, asked for your eyes on him, and panted the lightest breath of your name at the edge of it all—now who’s fucking who over, sweetheart?

You were out of your depth. He was powerful, older, and more experienced. He touched you in ways that emulated affection—that brought fire and danger. His hands were large and callused at the juncture of his fingers. His pretty mouth was pink, wet, kissed greedy. His sharp eyes took everything in.

But, as you predicted, his moods soon volleyed in every direction as consequence of never being told no, and once the novelty of crazy hot—often angry—sex grew stale, you crashed back down to earth burned out. You ghosted.

“You’re, what…” he called through the door the week after you texted that it was both too much and not enough to carry on with, “breaking up with me? Seriously. This is a fucking joke.”

And you could have practically seen it—how his bottom lip would jut out as his incisors crossed, how his brows would sink when he got angry. He was never belligerent, only calculating.

You told him to leave, and he did, after a single loud kick to the frame, because he’s never begged for anything, and he wasn’t going to start.

The guilt came afterwards, with the bouquet of roses on the doormat, petals scattered around because he’d slammed them down after being ignored again and again, and you swept them inside to throw into a vase next to the three other vases with flowers in various degrees of wilted.

“Breaking up” prickled complicatedly in the middle of your chest, because despite the many shows of affection, you knew you weren’t exactly breaking up. You had never really been with him anyway. People aren’t… with Ransom. They’re towed along by Ransom, dragged by their hair by Ransom. Played with by Ransom until he inevitably gets bored.

It devolved into needless melodrama. Weekly episodes of a teen show with grandiose gestures of toxic relationships perceived as romance. Ransom’s habit of whisking you away, fucking you senseless, turning around to fight with you about any-goddamn-thing he pleased. Dropping off flowers and champagne. Restarting the whole process.

It wasn’t healthy—isn’t healthy, probably, according to most therapists—since he’s here, present-day, in your room, beginning to undress.

You fiddle with the sleeves at your elbows, thumbing cool satin before advancing, arms subconsciously crossed.

He’s only in his underwear now. A pair of nondescript gray boxer briefs fitted on his muscular thighs, taut as he leans back on his palms. He slowly spreads his legs, inviting you between them. His lips purse when you stand passively, knee brushing his bulge, hands resting over his shoulders. He’s warm.

One palm caresses your lower back and the other on himself, gliding up and down. His lids are half open, voice low, “You miss this?”

“No,” which is a lie. You missed it when evenings were boring, half-heartedly nodding to some boy’s drivel about campus life, mind wandering to someone who didn’t look freshly 21, didn’t date like it. Didn’t talk themselves up just to get you into bed.

At least Ransom was honest; he always said exactly what he thought, told you exactly when you were pissing him off, how he was going to teach you a lesson—where he wanted you, how he wanted you, and— a chill races up your arms.

He’s downright smug when he notices.

“No? You prefer sloppy frat boys pawing at you like virgins over me? Every time, you think they might fuck right but, well, you’re always disappointed.” He reaches beneath the short hem of the robe, splays his hand out over your thigh and very slowly feels his way up.

Your eyes shutter as he pulls you forward, gripping tightly and massaging up toward your ass. The pit of your belly is tightening, the rest trying to push down being too eager for him all over you, his broad shoulders, his strong hands, how he bends his grasp on your shoulder, fixes you in a perfect curved arch just the way he likes.

Ransom noses the robe out of his path, sinking his teeth lightly down until he scrapes a line over your breastbone, laying his face gently down like a child—like a lover.

“You know,” he begins, taunting again, “You make a… face.” He says it as he trails down beneath the swell of one breast, letting your nipple graze his cheek, before he presses a kiss to your ribcage. Hot like a brand, searing into your belly. And then he bites.

You flinch, hand going to his hair to pull him away. He throws his head back into your grasp, eyes glittering and amused. He quickly works your thighs apart, dipping two fingers between and sinking into your heat.

“There it is,” he chuckles when your eyes flutter, “Yeah... Really gets me off.”

You’re in his lap before you know it, your hold on him fallen off and now scrambling for his wide shoulders to hold yourself steady. He’s got you leaned back on his thighs, hanging off the edge of the bed and perfectly helpless, the only thing planting you even close to secure are your folded knees, your arms around his neck. He’s shushing you, one large hand on the small of your back, the other still working inside your pussy.

He says, “Calm down unless you want to fall,” but it’s goddamn hard when your heart is pounding with equal parts fear and arousal. He’s sucking on your tits, balancing you just precariously enough to thrill, fingering you all the while—like it’s nothing to him, like you’re an object he can manipulate however he pleases.

His cock is erect, flexing against the fabric over his groin, a swell of hard, aching muscle. You want to put your hand around it, feel its girth in your palm, simply hold it because you do fucking miss it. The places he can reach, the ways he spreads you, rocking in and pulling out—how he sometimes settles inside, and then does nothing but watch you squirm.

It’s undeniably gorgeous—and he is too—when you fumble it out after he lays you down and hovers over you with interest. You’re wetting your lips automatically, staring in awe at his thick shaft sprouting from soft, dark, curls, the tip of it smooth and almost purple, swollen up with blood.

“Legs up,” and the way he says it, how he just goes right out and says it, makes you groan.

Boys don��t do that. Too busy in their heads about peacocking and re-enacting the kind of porno where performers wordlessly move into new positions in sync, nothing verbal exchanged but high-pitched shrieking and nasally fuck me’s.

Ransom’s extremely verbal in bed. He easily says, “Look at me. Show me how much you want it,” and flits his eyes between your bodies.

You do, shivering, sliding two fingers along the sides of your folds, finding yourself aroused and damp, humiliated and incredibly turned on when he grins, simply content with watching. Your thighs are squeezing reflexively, abdomen crunching up trying to keep it together.

But he’s never been patient, and quickly tells you to hold your knees, rock back, make yourself small and exposed, and then he’s delving gently into your hole— thumbs taking turns, coaxing more.

Two fingers tuck in, then another two struggle next to them, and you can’t stop yourself from gasping and crying out at how he pulls apart the walls of your cunt.

The sound of it— sloppy, squelching, a light and hollow kind of noise like a tongue flicking inside an open mouth.

“Look at this pretty pussy.” He tugs a little more, and you wriggle into it, gripping your legs tighter, pulling your knees up, shins toward your burning face to hide.

He descends on your clit, tip of his tongue licking into your stretched hole, purposefully only running against the taut skin around his fingers. “You got a talent, baby,” he murmurs, buzzing. “I could fuck you the whole day, fuck you numb… but give you about half an hour and it’s good as new, tight and perfect.”

There had been marathon rounds of bouncing in his lap between being at each other’s throats, his thighs splitting yours, hands holding you up, nibbling at your ear. Then he’d turn you around, take you to the floor until you collapsed on the bearskin rug, the sweat on your neck and chest rolling into dark furs. Railed you until you were so sensitive anything would make you come; your body unsure if it was considered your own anymore.

Fuck, fight, rinse, and repeat.

“Are you—going to talk all night?” You grunt up to the ceiling, trying to steel yourself from panting or moaning and only barely making it.

“Thought you liked it when I talked.” His dark head is still between your legs, nose pressed into your skin, licking agonizingly slow with his entire tongue. It’s so warm, and gentle, and assertive. “What, you don’t like being told how good you taste?”

He keeps licking, pushing at the back of your knees when you try to switch positions, holding you in that bent up pose. He’s suckling at your clit when his fingers find their way back inside, easily hooking in three and pumping them smoothly.

“How—” he sucks hard, the shape of his full, plush lips fitted over you making a filthy wet smack, “mmm—I love the taste of your sweet pussy?”

When you come like it’s being ripped out of you, legs shaking around his head, lines of his spit dripping down your ass and onto the sheets, he lets you go with a hard slap on your sex, and you nearly wail.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Yeah, you missed me, huh? You missed it like this, didn’t you? Tell me.”

“Unnng …” a high whine, “Ransom.”

“I know,” he mumbles, kissing up your belly, your neck, your ear.

He moves into position, entering effortlessly after all his prep work, and the shine of your juice still on his beard is fucking unholy hot. He’s grinning and panting, eyes fluttering briefly as he slides home.

“I know it’s big, baby. But you can take it, you’re gonna take it.” He’s a fraction unfocused, letting himself enjoy how you squeeze around him before he begins to punish.

Jesus, you missed this. Missed the agonizing drag of his shaft that feels like it goes on and on forever. Miss the way you get full of him, miss how it almost hurts.

His hipbones are hitting against yours, a steady fast rhythm because he’s experienced like that. Whereas some others might go faster when you’re close, Ransom stays at the pace that got you there in the first place. If anything, he pushes just a bit harder, makes you listen to the sound of his skin on yours, the choke of your breath he punches out.

You crunch yourself up smaller, toes touching the headboard now. Anything to get him further in.

“Fuck, you’re a slut,” he laughs. “Pretty little slut, god you don’t give it up like this for anyone else, do you?”

There’s not enough sense in you to argue even if you wanted to. The room is swimming, undulating, slipping further and further out of reach as the bed rocks and squeaks in protest. You’re sure you met a very handsome guy at the bar weeks ago but as soon as he started hinting that he was interested and stirred up conversation by asking your major, you left.

It just… wasn’t there. It wasn’t the same. No way in hell.

That boy wouldn’t have done this—wouldn’t be planting one foot on the bed, the other knee still down, enormous hands tight on your hips and crashing in.

You could cry, it feels so goddamn good.

Tears dribble their way out from the corner of your eyes. You turn your face enough to get a breath of fresh air, gulping it in frantically between the drive of Ransom’s cock and the half second he slides out.

You vaguely register his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, knuckles brushing upward.

“Oh,” he sighs, “pretty, pretty girl.” He slows his pace, nearly stilling. You squirm beneath him, inching away from how deep he is inside you, how intimate it feels as he kisses the hollow of your cheek and then toward your brow.

“So sweet for me,” he says, pulsing, making you whine with how he pushes against your sore walls. “Did I make a slut out of you? Huh? Make you stupid for my dick?”

“Make me come,” you say. “Make me—“

“Ask me real nice, baby. Ask daddy to make you come.”

You want to hit him. Kill him.

“No?” He whispers into the sensitive shell of your ear, “You don’t want it?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment clawing up your face, but Ransom’s hold is tighter, sharper, and he really is— so fucking right. You want it. And he’s made you a little stupid, so yeah--

“Please make me come, daddy. I wanna come.”

The Cheshire grin that unfurls on his face is more panther than cat. “You wanna come on daddy’s big cock?”

“Yes, daddy,” you admit. “I wanna so bad.”

“Oh, that’s it, baby. You’re a good girl, aren’t you. You put on a little show just for me? Act like you don’t want it but soon as I get in you and you let me lay you out anywhere, make you say anything.”

You turn away but he’s got your fucking number— got you as a boneless, spineless mess beneath him as he begins to fuck you again, and harder, his calculating, beautiful, cruel face hanging above you like a fever dream.

“You gonna come? Gonna cry?”

He’s melting away, he’s everywhere, and the lights behind your eyelids are starting to glare and threaten to explode.

“Gonna come for daddy, huh. That’s it, baby. That’s my girl, let me feel your pussy— ah— there it is— you can’t help it, can you? Mmm, swallow daddy’s cock with your pussy.”

Your orgasm is a wreck of curses and teeth on Ransom’s shoulder when he drops down close enough to make contact. You shake and whimper, struggling to calm yourself through the aftershocks.

When you’re done, still floaty but more aware, the mess of your humming insides less tight around him, he pulls out and shuffles up until his swollen tip is at your chin.

You obey wordlessly, and afterwards, when the flex of his shaft is tell-tale, and he empties into your mouth, you hold it there, show him the mess.

“Baby,” he says, slowly making his way back down, admiring the come submerging your tongue.

Ransom licks his lips, licks the inside of his cheek, and leans back over again, his eyes liquid darkness and pleased as punch. And he drops a line of spit on top, drools it down over your teeth, into your mouth, and says, “Good girl.”

“You need a new laptop.” He’s tugging his belt until the clasp hooks into place.

“I don’t.”

“It looks old.”

“So do you.”

He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it.

“See you next week,” he hums.

You don’t say anything in response, only listening for the same heavy footsteps slam back downstairs—perhaps a fraction lighter—and the clunk of the door swinging shut. A long breath and you stretch slowly, letting your body regain its normal shape before he bent you into a goddamn pretzel. A few minutes pass, and then a few more, and you hear the roar of his car speed out of the parking lot.

Safe now, out of his reach, you amble back up into your computer chair to face the awful white, blank document staring back like a judgmental audience. You slide in and crack your neck, feeling the throb between your thighs yield to a less uncomfortable ache.

The problem, you’ve learned after leaving Ransom’s world, was that you had been ill-equipped to play his game. His game, and by extension, Meg’s game. All the Thrombeys and Drysdales and everyone in-between.

They belonged to a class you couldn’t really understand unless you were making a fucking killing—and graduation was just around the bend, so maybe you would, one day—but you were in the red with 45 grand of student debt and staring down the barrel of a subsequent degree because it was getting hard to make it with just a single bachelor’s in anything.

There was too much to do and not enough time to be jerked around by Ransom—not nearly enough time to feel frustrated about your situation in any sense. No, scraping by taught you to survive. You couldn’t be whisked off to the Caymans for brunch, couldn’t be fucked raw in hotel infinity pools, get lost for days meandering the Pacific on luxury yachts for the fun of it.

Your world was a little more drab, a little less rose-tinted.

So it was back to normal now, back to the grind, back to not wasting any part of your week on shitty dates, shitty sex, and coming home more frustrated than you left it. Because there was Ransom, so eager to make some kind of statement about proving you wrong that he’d be the last to know when he’s being used.

And maybe 4 out of 5 therapists would say that your coping mechanism to a normal sex drive is unhealthy—mind-fucking and regular-fucking your ex/not-ex will do that—but you wouldn’t know. You can’t afford therapy just yet.

You rub your back, patting out the tightness of overworked muscles. It doesn’t feel any worse than the cramp you’d gotten after staying up three nights in a row cramming for finals.

As if your brain has reset, your fingers begin tapping on the keys, and you realize your writer’s block’s been lifted.

#ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey #knives out #ransom x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale smut #reader insert #fanfiction #ransom drysdale thrombey

628 notes · View notes

justalonelyslytherin · 2 years

Text

Sicknesses - Ransom Drysdale

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x female Reader

Summary: Ransom ends up sick and she has to take care of him. Not used to such affections Ransom isn't an easy patient, nor a willing one.

Warnings: fluff, sick Ransom, Ransom has a cold, somewhat soft!Ransom, brief mention of his shitty family

Wordcount: 2.1k

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a comment or reblogging. I don't allow for my content to be copied, translated, or reposted on other websites/apps. Please don't steal my work.

A/N: divider by @firefly-graphics

She knew something was up the moment she saw the Beemer parked in front of the house. It had not moved an inch since the previous day. That was the first indication that something was off.

While Ransom sometimes chose to work from home - the huge office on the upper floor of the house was certainly deemed worthy for that - most of the time he did make the trip to his grandfather’s publishing house. Blood like Wine had an exquisite and even more luxurious headquarters in which Ransom had his own office. One made of plush, luxurious furniture, only second to Harlan’s even grander office. Albeit most of the time, he ended up at his grandfather’s mansion. The two of them would lock themselves into Harlan’s study and work on manuscripts or discuss the newest book the head of the Thrombey/Drysdale dynasty was working on.

It had become a routine for them, for her, to come home to the house, the beemer missing from its usual spot and the house empty and quiet. Ransom would come home to her having whipped up a meal for both. She found he was more relaxed when he worked outside. Especially since Walt loved to get on his nerves. His uncle hadn’t accepted that Ransom now had a bigger role in the company and a higher ranking in the office hierarchy than him and that after working there much shorter. Thus the old, bitter man had made it his goal to make Ransom’s work life a living nuisance. The drive home always worked as a time for Ransom to cool down and leave the angers of work behind.

The second indication something was off was the house. It was silent when she entered it. Nothing so unusual, the house was big and one could be encompassed by silence even if the other person was busy or loud in another part of the spacious living quarters. Still there was an air to the place that told her something was off. There was a reason Ransom had had a help and cleaning lady employed before they had moved together. He had the bad habit of letting things just lay around, never putting them away or cleaning after himself. It was too clean and too untouched. As if he hadn’t been here at all the entire day.

Putting her things down she looked around. The throw blanket and pillows were still neatly draped over the couches in the living room, there were no empty pots and no used cup indicating he had been to the kitchen to make himself a coffee either. The machine wasn’t even turned on and all her cookbooks were still in place. Ransom always liked to shove them to the side to make space when he got himself a coffee.

“Ran?” She knew her chances of him hearing her were slim. She tried it anyway. If he were to be in their bedroom he’d have heard her for sure. Climbing up the stairs she was greeted by even more silence. Even in front of his office, she didn’t hear a thing. That was the third indication something was off. Normally she’d hear him on the phone with someone or simply grumbling to himself.

Knocking at the door brought her no response. Furrowing her brows she cracked the door open and poked her head into the room. Ransom wasn’t behind his desk in his usual spot but there were some manuscripts and other papers spread over the oak desk together with his open laptop.

“Ransom?” She asked again, this time stepping into his work-den. Something to her right caught her attention. There he was. Sprawled out on the couch, shoes still on. He was on his side with one arm thrown over his eyes and knees bent to fit onto the two-seater. In front of him on the small coffee table lay another manuscript.

“Ransom?” She asked again but he gave no response. She made her way over to him, kneeling in front of the couch. His chest raised and sank in an even rhythm. He looked almost peaceful if it wasn’t for the way his breath rattled and how heavy it was. It seemed like he had difficulty breathing properly.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, letting her fingers trail over his sweater-clad arm until she reached his wrist. Carefully pulling his arm off his face, she looked at him. His face was scrunched up, a deep frown etched onto his sleeping features. There was a film of perspiration across his forehead and as she combed the unruly strands of his hair back, she felt how dewy with sweat they too were.

“Ransom,” she said again, this time shaking his shoulder. A groan slipped from his lips as he slowly came too. When his eyes opened they were glassy and unfocused.

“Hey baby,” she mumbled quietly, her thumb brushing over his cheek. He simply looked at her, rather blankly and blinked slowly. Once again she furrowed her brows, this time in concern. Ransom wasn’t one for physical attention, at least if it wasn’t coming from him. He had his moments in which he still pushed her away, too overwhelmed with the softness and the loving attitude he received.

“You fell asleep, are you not feeling alright?” She asked him quietly, trying to get him to engage with her. Finally, he brushed her hand off and sat up, looking around the office and frowning.

“I’m fine,” he told her gruffly. She noticed how congested he sounded, his voice a rather irritated rasp. When he tried to get up and wobbled for a moment she knew he was anything but fine.

“Whoa, take it easy grumpy.” Her hands had shot out towards his waist, softly resting there to help him keep his balance. He shot her a glare but she kept eyeing him and caressing his side with her thumb. “Why were you even on the couch?” Her question made him scoff.

“Walt kept blowing up my phone and he was giving me a headache. I wanted a moment to sort my thoughts before continuing on the manuscript.”

“And you fell asleep?” The question earned her a second glare. His glares had stopped bothering her a long time ago. She could tell by now what were actual signs of irritation and agitation from him and what was simply his stony mask. He wasn’t actually mad at her and behind his glare was no power.

“Let’s call it an early day, hm?” He didn’t look pleased with her suggestion but he also didn’t complain, nor did he stop her from going over to his desk and shutting his laptop off.

“You know you can tell me when you aren’t feeling good,” she told him, eyeing him from behind his desk as she sorted the papers and put them in the desk drawer.

“I’m feeling alright.” Once again he was adamant but the truth was clear to her. When she looked over at him again she noticed him shiver.

“Ransom,” her stern voice made him look up. He seemed surprised. She was always so soft-spoken and calm, never serious or even scolding with him.

“Maybe I still have a headache,” he told her and at that moment he reminded her of a pouting five-year-old that had been caught stealing cookies. Walking back over, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Instantly he relaxed and put his hands on her waist.

“How about you go take a shower. I’ll get you something for your headache and then we’ll lay down together?” It surprised her how easily he agreed. It must have been the mixture of her stern voice from before and him not feeling good.

While he showered she went on to raid their small medicine cabinet. She was glad she had talked him into getting one and stocking it up. Ransom had complained about it the entire way but she had insisted, stating that it was worth it alone for the pain medication she used when it was her time of the month.

Now even more so as she could simply grab the bottle of cold medicine - rather than having to run to a store - and go get him a glass of water. Both items she placed on his nightstand in their bedroom before she went into the adjacent walk-in closet. With a pair of comfy, silky pajama bottoms and another sweater, she made her way into the bathroom. The shower was still going.

“Ran?”, she asked and heard a small hum coming from him. He sounded less congested, she noticed. The warm water must have cleared his sinuses. “I got you some pajamas to change into when you’re done.”

There was no second hum from him. She knew he had heard her, even if he didn’t she had placed the clothes in a way he couldn’t overlook them. Already on her way to turn around and leave him alone, she stopped when the water cut out and the door of the shower opened. He looked at her with half-lidded eyes, nearly stumbling out of the shower.

“Oof, Ransom!” She was quick to move, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his hips while she simultaneously kept him from slipping and falling. Having to call the ambulance because he split his head open wasn’t what they needed.

“You really aren’t feeling good, huh?” She mumbled, earning another small glare from him that she promptly ignored. “Come on, sit down, you stubborn fool.” Getting him to sit down on the ledge of the bathtub took some coaxing but in the end, he sat there, with his back leaned against the wall.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she had barely completed the sentence before she was already out of the room, grabbing both the medicine and the glass of water. Armed with both she marched back.

“Here, take this.” She held out both a pill and the glass of water, waiting for him to take it. Of course, he didn’t.

“I don’t want it,” he complained, his mouth turned down in an unpleasant frown. Once again he reminded her of a little boy.

“Come on.” Stubbornly he shook his head and cursed at how dizzy it made him feel before he crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Ran,” she tried to coax, “Come on, you’ll feel better if you take it.” She knew he was stubborn, he always had been, but a sick Ransom was an entirely new measurement on the stubbornness-skala.

“Take it or I’ll shove it down your throat.” Ransom let out a surprised laugh, that quickly transitioned into a cough that made her wince. He cocked a brow, looking her up and down once his fit had subsided.

“You’d never be able to.”

“Oh yeah? I’ve got my ways, Ran. You are weak enough right now and if not I’ll have to go to other lengths.” There was a small grin forming on his face together with a challenging look. One she took as a direct invite. Stepping closer to him she looked down at him from over the bridge of her nose, her eyes wandering down towards the towel hiding his lap away. Coming close enough to step in between his legs, she nudged one of her knees forward. That was all it took for him to realize what the other lengths were she was prepared to use.

“You are evil, woman,” he groaned, finally giving up. Even if the thought of intimacy was inviting, he had no energy for it.

“Fine?” She asked him once more and this time he nodded, still scowling. With a triumphant smile, she pushed the pill against his lips, watching him take it into his mouth before she handed him the glass and here too watched him drink it up. Putting the glass aside she put her arms around his neck, softly pushing the wet strands of hair from his forehead.

“Good boy.” The praise was quiet, just whispered against his lips before she gave him a peck. She knew he liked to get praised by her, “Let’s get you dressed, and then we can go lay down.”

With her help, Ransom slipped the pajamas on and trotted behind her into the bedroom. They both got under the covers, her opening her arms up for him. Ransom came without complaints, sinking into the embrace and resting his head on her chest. He was still slightly feverish, the medicine would make him even more sleepy and tired in a short while. She simply wrapped her arms around his shoulders, one hand stroking through his hair.

#sly's 200 #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale fluff #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom x reader #ransom thrombey x you #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom thrombrey

401 notes · View notes