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foxgloveprincess · 2 months

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Pairing: DBF Ari Levinson x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Word Count: 4,037

Summary: Outside your doors, things threaten the peace in your attic. Ari might need your help, but can he trust you?

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark/Soft Dark, Dubious Consent, previous Kidnapping, Attic Wife Trope, Unreliable Narrator, Anxiety, Kissing, Smut (Groping, Dry Humping/Grinding, Finger Sucking, Thigh Riding, Vaginal Penetration, Unprotected Sex, mild Anal Play), Slapping (just one), Daddy Kink, Praise Kink, Modern AU, Age Gap (Ari is in his 40s, Reader is in her mid-20s), Dad’s Best Friend, mentions of Strained Father/Daughter Relationship, Minor Character Death, Yandere Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Crying, Pet Names (li’l dip, baby, li’l bear, etc). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Ari is my very favorite in this AU. He’s just so frickin’ soft and tender for his li’l dip. What I wouldn’t give to be locked in his attic. 🥰 I hope you enjoy!

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog/comment if you want. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work, at all. I cross-post to my own AO3 account.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

He stops locking the door. The first time you notice, you don’t quite pinpoint the reason why you’re unsettled. An absence simply needles at the back of your mind until Ari visits you again.

But it keeps happening. The door knob turning under your hand each time Ari leaves. Temptation itches at you. To follow your captor out of your room. To wait for the right moment to sneak out the door. To escape.

Yet you don’t. The mere thought of it sparks a panic that skitters up your spine and freezes you in place. What if it’s all a trap? What if he’s toying with you? What would he do if you were caught trying to run?

It’s like he knows. The spirals of your mind keeping you more trapped in your room than any physical lock.

“Where’s my li’l dip?” he asks, with a giant smile cracking his lips.

You glance over your shoulder at his entrance. The door to the attic left open—wide open—right behind him. You stare at it a beat too long. Temptation a sharp prick that fades quickly. You turn back, bury yourself in your blankets, and tuck those thoughts away.

Ari’s big, burly arms wrap around your waist and pull you from your cocoon. The solid wall of his chest presses to your back. He nuzzles against your neck and presses a kiss to your pulse point. You wriggle and he chuckles deep in his throat.

“Oh, baby bear,” he coos. His hot breath brushes against your skin. “Don’t be like that. You know Daddy just wants some loving.” One hand releases you so he can trace his fingers across your cheek. “After all he’s done for you this week.”

Images of his head between your thighs as you woke the past few days, the soreness that lingers at your core, the way your breath hitches at just the thought. Your eyes flutter shut and you try to hide from the embarrassment of it all.

“No,” he says, letting his fingers wrap around your neck and tip your head back. He plants a kiss on your cheek and your jaw. “Want you right here with me.” His arm tightens around you and presses you infinitesimally closer. “We gotta talk, baby.”

Your thoughts pause. His statement so incongruous to his actions. His wanting hands and intimate proximity do not signify a desire to simply talk.

“About what?” you ask, trepidation turning your stomach. A thousand possibilities fly through your head.

Ari sighs and tugs gently at your shoulder. He waits for you to turn over, face to face, before beginning.

“I know we’ve been so happy together. That this has been the best thing we’ve ever had happen to us.” He smiles and the wave of affection and sincerity buffets you—somehow still unused to it.

At his patient and silent prompting, you nod while keeping eye contact. Knowing it’s a placation—and wondering whether you can say it’s just that.

“It hasn’t been easy,” Ari says, tipping his forehead to rest against yours. “There have been obstacles for us.”

“Obstacles?”

A muscle in Ari’s jaw ticks. His nostrils flare on a deep breath. He collects himself a minute before saying, “your father took our decision rather harder than expected.”

A confused, “what?” croaks out of your throat before you can stop it.

“You know how he is,” Ari says, slotting a thick thigh between yours. “Everyone has to play the part, the perfect family.” Fingers grab at the back of your pajama shorts, sinking into your plush flesh. “You never quite fit his standards, did you?”

You blink at the tears that form on your waterline. But they drip down your cheeks anyway. Sniffing does nothing to stop them.

“Hey, li’l love,” Ari coos in the softest voice, wiping at the stream of tears. “You know you’ve always been perfect for me.” Kisses land on your cheeks. The tickle of Ari’s beard so familiar now. The comfort he offers more tempting than an open door would ever be.

He pauses a moment to wrap a blanket tighter around your shoulders and over your legs, his body a furnace. You bask in the warmth and sleep tugs at your eyelids.

Ari leans back and tilts your chin up. “Stay with me, baby. There’s more,” he admits with a regret-filled click of his teeth.

You blink away the sleep. Your eye catches the patches of grey at his temples and in his beard. Using them to pull yourself back into focus. You take a deep breath and swallow a yawn.

“He went to the cops once he got back from vacation.” Ari sighs again, his brows tilted with sympathy. “They’ve been trying to poke their nose into things. I have a lawyer friend who’s been helping me out, but I still think they suspect I did something untoward with you.”

A faint, “oh,” breezes past your lips. You’re not sure what to think. Obviously, there are some skews in Ari’s perspective. Probably some in yours, too.

“I can admit I’m nervous,” Ari confesses with a duck of his chin. “What if they want to take you away from me?” He shifts on the bed, his thigh grinding against your sex through your pajamas. Your belly flutters with the friction. “The thought of you all alone. It drives me crazy. I can’t let that happen to you, not to my sweet baby.”

“If my dad wants to find me—”

Ari cuts you off with a kiss, hands cradling your cheeks. You gasp again his lips and clutch at the front of his shirt. You melt into it, the softness and gentleness. Intoxicating. When he pulls away, his forehead finds yours again.

“He suffered a heart attack about a week ago. He didn’t make it,” your captor whispers, sympathy lacing his voice like poison. “Candace moved to Majorca. There’s no one left for you, but they still want to take you away.”

Speech eludes you. Your dad died. Why can’t you figure out how to feel about it? So ambivalent to him being gone. Grief the furthest thing from your mind. Because it’s not like you can deny it. No other family above ground. An old job as a pawn for a giant corporation leaving you faceless in a crowd. You really would be alone.

“You need me, don’t you, baby bear?”

You think a moment, gazing into Ari’s blue eyes. He waits for you, neither prodding nor rushing. Peering into your very soul, searching for honesty.

When you part your lips to speak, you’re unsure what will come out. A dull part of you wants to claw out of his embrace and scream at him. Storm out the door and disappear into the surrounding forest until you find the nearest road. The other wants to agree and burrow into the safety of his chest. Find comfort in his steady heartbeat, sink and never resurface.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Ari’s eyes sparkle. He’s so gorgeous when he looks at you like you hang the moon and stars, you can’t help but swoon. Perhaps it’s true. You hadn’t been joking with Arielle those few months ago—you really did need this, want this, crave this. So easy your acceptance has been.

Your throat dries, swallowing down the realization like shards of glass. Tears prick at your eyes once more. To hide from them, you tuck your head into the crook of Ari’s neck.

He wraps you in his arms and strokes your back along your spine. His lips croon sweet nothings in your ear, whispers of admiration that just make you feel worse. Your head shakes, smushed as it is against him.

“Does my sweet girl not feel praiseworthy?”

Your head continues to shake and he hums.

“Guess I’ll have to show you,” he says as if it doesn’t make him pleased as punch to have the opportunity.

It starts with a slow grind and a heavy sigh. He rocks your hips, pinning you against his thighs with much more intention and intensity. A spark skitters up your spine, a whimper accompanying it up your throat.

Your mind quiets to this moment. The way your captor is about to make you feel. Your eyes meet. Hunger exchanged between your gazes. His strong and bold, yours just as ravenous but tinged by hesitation.

“Let Daddy take care of you,” he whispers with a quirk of his brow. He waits only for you to blink before devouring any other response in a passionate kiss.

His tongue licks its way into your mouth, tangling with yours. Searching for the delicious sounds you produce with every sultry slide of your cunt. Still slow, controlled, but with that anticipatory promise of wild need.

Your nails sink into his chest, catching on his chest hair and scratching along his pecs. He grunts and jerks his hips forward, his cock a hard press against you. Ready to bury into you like a sword finding its sheathe. Yet his restraint keeps every motion steady.

The smell of his sweat fills your nose, mingling with his cologne. You inhale deeply. Addicted to the scent. Wishing to drown yourself in it. Ignore to whom it belongs. To imagine a world where the man feeling your slick soaking through your thin layers didn’t drug and kidnap you. That he didn’t catfish you and pose as a friend. A world where you met and fell in love like normal people. Even a world where he offered to lock you away and you agreed.

Ari hisses as your teeth catch his tongue. But he doesn’t linger, trailing his kisses down your cheek to your throat.

“What’s wrong, li’l dip?”

“Nothing,” you warble, hoping he thinks your pleasure affects your voice, not a deep cavern of dismay.

He looks up and meets your watery eyes. You try to look away, but he enthralls you with the piercing certainty of his gaze and you can’t. For a long moment, he just stares, reading every thought running through your head.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers, after a moment. “I understand.” His hands cup your cheeks and he presses a kiss to your forehead, his hips beginning to rock harder against your own.

Your lips part. Ari’s thumb traces your skin and sinks between your parted flesh. Your tongue licks at the pad of his finger and you begin to suck. Soothing yourself with his digit. His other hand moves between you, groping your breast and kneading them one at a time.

“I love you,” he says, your name a reverent punctuation to his declaration. “I love you more than anything.”

You blink, but can’t respond with his thumb in your mouth. And he doesn’t move it away, not requiring one. Part of you wonders if he realizes that this isn’t real—not love. The other wonders if it is, if you could accept it. The answer blindsides you, plowing to the forefront of your mind and leaving you stunned.

His hips buck, a vigorous motion jostling you in the blankets. A moan spills from his lips and the last thread of his control frays, reveals a taste of the full extent of his appetite.

He strips his shirt from his body, a quick motion to replace his thumb between your lips as quickly as possible. With the one hand left, he pushes his shorts and boxer briefs from his legs.

Hot and hard, his cock slots against your sex. He slides it between your legs and grunts. Friction eased by the arousal coating your thighs and dripping from the head of his cock. His free hand shoves your clothes out of the way. Seeking a clear path to your dripping entrance. Fabric bunching around your knees.

The head of his cock taps at your clit. Your hips jerk and he finds your entrance, just that press and prod enough to send you reeling. Your fingers grab at him, needy. Your brain foggy with lust, you glance down to see him plunging into you. Slow and sure.

“Fuck,” you whimper around his thumb.

He seats himself fully inside you. A breath rushes across your lips. Ari rolls his hips. You buck to meet him, skin sticking to the blankets beneath you, already worked up with so little provocation.

“You fit me so perfectly,” Ari praises.

You nod, bobbing your head without pause. Agreeing still as he starts to pull out and thrust back in. His spit slick thumb retreats from your mouth, trailing down your torso and between you to play with the throbbing bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. A satisfied hum vibrates out of your throat, though your lips seal shut to keep it at bay. Ari projects his sounds of pleasure, filling the room as he ruts against you on your bed.

It’s a lazy dance that chases the high between you. Ari’s thrusts controlled, precise. Your own answering movements are less so, too focused on the feelings drowning out your thoughts. You need them.

Ari keeps your eyes locked. Sometimes you think he can’t cum without that contact. Even when he’s taken you from behind. He needs to see your eyes. Needs to see them gloss over with lust and longing when you’re not sure where you end and he begins.

He looks for it now. That haze that rolls over you. Consuming pleasure. Your leg trembles, hitching up to try to hook over him. Your shorts and underwear prevent it, stretched too taut. You whine and release Ari from your grip to push the offending material down to your ankles and kick them off the rest of the way. He pauses, reveling in the moment to lavish your tits through your shirt. He hikes it up and bends his head to suck a nipple into his mouth.

“So sweet for me,” he says, switching to the other.

Your back arches toward him. The sensation a plucking tease without fulfillment. You huff in frustration and roll your hips, fucking yourself on his cock. A hand falls to Ari’s ass, helping support the movement and push him deeper into you.

“Please,” you beg, unhappy with his pause to focus only on your breasts, wanting more despite how good it feels.

“Please what?” he asks, arching a brow and pulling away from your chest. “What does my sweet baby want?”

You whine high in your throat. “Want you to fuck me.” You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Knowing how it peeves him.

“You know that’s not what I want to hear,” he says with a slap to your left breast. It jiggles and stings from the impact.

You hiss and pout, looking to Ari and seeing the serious set of his brow. With a blink, your eyes lower to the hollow of his throat. Hesitant fingers reach out and wrap over his biceps, scratching at his skin.

“Please, Daddy, will you fuck me?” The words are a whisper, a secret that you can’t confess. That every time the title falls past your lips, the heat that rises up through your body, setting you alight, is not from shame but a burning captivation.

“That’s my girl,” Ari coos.

His hips clap to yours. No longer restrained undulations, but bold claiming thrusts that knock your teeth together and drive you out of your senses. He traces his fingers down your back, holding you in place for a moment. The way they sink into your voluptuous curves, imprinting him onto you. But they wander, yet to have found their true destination.

They find your clit and fondle your lower lips, stretched tight around his cock, and continue to drift. They find their place back and around, finding the crack of your cheeks and the puckered rosebud between.

Your eyes widen, hips bucking away in surprise. He’d never expressed any kind of interest before. Your gaze darts to his eyes, wary of upsetting him but searching for answers. Shocked away from the rising euphoria of climax.

“Daddy always takes care of you, doesn’t he?” he asks with a soothing kiss, circling the sensitive flesh of your hole.

You hum in high-pitched affirmation, focused on his finger’s tender, slick prodding and all the more distracted by the grind of his pelvis catching on your clit.

The tip of his finger breaches you, and you wince. Unused to such violation, you’re unsure how to feel. Delicately he pets, in and out, only the tip. Offering a feeling of fullness that you can’t quite grasp.

“Been thinking about this,” Ari explains, working in rhythm to coax that smoldering glow into a wildfire once again. “I know you never mentioned it in our talks, but you did say you wanted to be all mine. Mind.” he accentuates the word with a thrust of both cock and finger. “Body.” He thrusts again, his digit sinking further into your hole on his retreat. “Soul.” Another thrust that hits just right.

Rapture eclipses your mind, a white burst that consumes you and sends you reeling over the peak of your orgasm. A sound rips from your chest. Your nails scratch, drawing red stripes across his arms. At the sight, lungs heaving for breath, you release him and reach up to sink your fingers into his hair. You grip at the root and buck toward him. Entranced by the high that rushes through you. Your lips find his and you moan into his waiting mouth. Content as he is to drink it up.

The aftershocks continue to seize your frame, even as Ari continues on. Steady in his destruction of your sanity and your propriety.

“You’re so tight, li’l dip,” he says, heavier than before. His muscles strain as he talks, holding himself back from the precipice. “We can work with that. Got a friend, makes quality accessories.” He moans and squeezes his eyes shut for the first time, his hips stuttering in their rhythm. “The thought of you with a cute little tail plug and ears, frilly little bow around your neck.” He huffs and you whine before he kisses you with fervent force. “My own li’l baby bear to play with just how I want.”

His words cut short of a breath, unable to hold out any longer. He cums inside you, painting your walls. You mewl at the sensation. He breathes in relief with a few more weary thrusts of his cock.

“What do you think?” Ari asks, with a sunny smile, pulling his finger from your ass but keeping himself seated deep inside you.

“You’re aware of all the trouble you’ve caused, miss?” The officer—no sheriff—sits across from you, coffee cup by his hand and file open flat in front of him.

You nod your head and look around the dismal, bare walls of the room. A cup of cool water sits in a glass by your hand, untouched since another officer brought it in.

“I didn’t realize my dad would notice,” you say honestly. Your pulse spikes in your ear, a constant thundering beat. Teeth on edge, you look to the man across from you and meet his eyes. Your hands a ball of kneading fingers on your lap.

“So, you claim that this disappearance was a spur of the moment getaway. No foul play.” There’s a southern drawl to his words, not something you’d expect to find here. You examine him. Brown hair styled in an overgrown crew cut, greying at the temples. His leather jacket strains over his shoulders and stomach. His face puffy but wrinkled, showing his age. He chews on a piece of candy, rattling it between his teeth while he waits.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I caused,” you say, reciting the words practiced with Ari. Your fingers dip into the collar of your shirt, pulling the knit fabric away from your throat. You wonder what time it is now. It seems an age ago that Ari escorted you into the local police station and explained the situation for you to the officers from the city. You’d expressed an inclination for a vacation, and he’d provided his private cabin. You’d been off the grid, getting some much needed rest. Hadn’t heard a thing about a search or your father’s passing until Ari had a chance to come get you.

“Your father’s acquaintance seems very, uh, friendly,” the sheriff says with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows.

Your cheeks heat. This is the moment, you think. If ever there were a time to cry out for help, for escape. Sitting across from an officer of the law, someone who can get you away. Already suspicious of the situation, ready to act.

Your mouth dries, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. “We,” you stumble over your answer, “you see, the thing is, we…”

The sheriff’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing you. Tears threaten, born from the stress of the situation and the volley of thoughts filling in your head. You look to the table, hands clutching into tight fists on your lap. Your diaphragm expands with a deep breath.

“After we met through my dad, we kept talking, even though I didn’t realize it was him at the time,” you explain as steady as you can, mind full of images of being completely alone. Without family, without friends, without Ari. “We’ve bonded.”

The name tag on the sheriff’s shirt glints in the fluorescent lights. You trace the letters with your eyes and wait for him to say something.

“What would that bond be, exactly?” Sheriff Bodecker asks.

Your mind blanks on how to describe it. The tether almost visibly linking you to Ari. The thought a bittersweet one. That this was all inevitable.

“He takes care of me,” you reply, tilting your head, ready to explain further.

But a sleazy scoff from the sheriff stops you. “I get it,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Couldn’t have your old man know about his friend being your sugar daddy on the side.” He closes the file and leers at you, a slow perusal at your figure over the table.

“I—” you stop. Words fizzle on your tongue. No way to form an appropriate defense for yourself.

He licks his lips and stands. One hand rests on his belt buckle, the other holds his file. He taps it on the table and says, “I guess you’re free to go, then. Your beau must be worried about you by now.”

Your skin crawls at his suggestive tone—every word from his mouth somehow dripping with innuendo.

“Let’s get you home.” The door opens with his hand, and he directs you out with a nod.

You scurry past him, a wary glance sent back over your shoulder. Your feet carry you quickly to the front of the station where Ari waits, lounging back on a wooden bench. His head lifts the moment your footsteps echo over to him and he jumps up.

“Everything alright?” he asks in a whisper, hands grasping your shoulders and peering into your eyes. “Did you tell them what happened?”

The heavier tread of Sheriff Bodecker’s shoes approach and stop by the front desk.

“She answered all our questions. The city cops are all satisfied,” he says with a tip of his head. “She’s free.”

Ari’s arm wraps around your shoulders and he breathes in relief. He guides you out of the station and into his car, parked as close as possible. The shadows of night hang all around you. Owls hooting in the trees and not another soul driving down the street. How late could it possibly be?

You find the passenger seat and Ari closes your door. Before you can blink, he’s backing out of his spot and driving away from the station. Your eyes still locked on the light shining from the glass panes of the door, and possibly your best and last chance at escape.

Ari’s arm stretches over the back of the bench seat, pulling you close and tucking you beside him. You follow his silent direction and rest your head against your captor’s chest. The sheriff’s final words echoing in your head.

Free. Sure.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson fanfic #ari levinson fanfiction #female reader #dark #dark fic #modern au #tw dub con #dub con #smut #yandere vibes #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 9 months

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Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: You didn’t mean to catch Ransom’s attention, and you’ll do whatever it takes to lose it.

Word Count: 8.1k

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark, Dubious Consent (Kissing, Blow Job, Vaginal Sex, Overstimulation, Mild Degradation/Humiliation, Praise Kink), Coercion (Payment for Sex), Stalking, Fear/Paranoia, Yandere Vibes, BDSM (Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Rope Bondage, Suspension, Aftercare, Leather Cuffs), Pet Names (dear, birdie, pidge). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Hope you enjoy it. Let me know if I should continue it! Up next is A.W.A. Meeting (#2), then hopefully Lloyd.

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

The song has been stuck in your head all day. Soft and sweet and romantic, it buzzes past your lips in a quiet hum while you end your work day by tidying your space.

“You know,” Harlan says as he leans back in his chair, contemplation narrowing his stare, “my offer still stands to make you my full-time personal assistant.”

You sigh and continue to clean up your papers, clipping them in neat packets for easy access when the research becomes relevant. “And you know I have other commitments.” You glance over your shoulder with a grin and shrug. “I can’t leave Chase hanging.” You snort at the unintended pun and continue working. Your hand brushes a spec of fuzz from the corner of your table, leaving it immaculate.

Harlan makes a noise of agreement and sits up before standing. “Well, if things ever change.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” you agree. The final clip snaps onto your last packet. “Now,” you address your boss with a playfully stern finger pointed in his direction, “don’t mess this up.” You nod toward the space set aside as your desk. Pens, post-its, and papers neat in a row.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” There’s a mischievous twinkle in the man’s eye, and you know you’ll be reorganizing on Monday morning, but you don’t mind. Not when Harlan’s done so much for you, and you know he’ll inevitably make your job easier somehow.

The dogs start barking outside. The front door slams and heavy steps thud toward the kitchen. No greeting, no real indication of who it might be. But you’ve worked in the Thrombey house long enough to make an educated guess.

“Looks like your grandson’s paying you a visit,” you muse while packing away the last of your belongings. “Don’t tear each other to pieces, alright? I still need this job at the end of the weekend.”

Harlan chuckles and shakes his head. He’s a good man, kind but indomitable. You admire him a moment longer. Fond warmth reflects back at you in his gaze. You’ll never forget how lucky you were he decided to take a chance on you.

“Goodnight,” you bid with a smile.

Harlan sends the same after you as you turn to the stairs, waiting for his grandson to make his surely dramatic entrance. The Go board already in hand. You wonder if he will take his grandfather up on the challenge.

Passing Marta and Fran on your way out the door, you say your farewells. And you almost make it out before coming face to face with the notorious ass—Hugh Ransom Drysdale. To think you’d been able to avoid him for so long. You should have taken the back exit through the patio.

“Who’re you?” he asks, inspecting you like a blot of dirt on his Beemer.

“Hello, Mr. Drysdale,“ you greet softly, short and professional. His head tilts and his gaze narrows at the address. “I’m expected elsewhere. If you’ll excuse me.” But you don’t wait for him to move, skirting around his broad frame before making it out the front door. His stare burning into your back the whole way. Constant, uncomfortable.

Safe and locked in your car, you’re able to shake it off. At least for a moment. When it starts to creep back up your spine while pulling out of the driveway, your hand reaches over to flick on your stereo, blasting the feeling away. You sing along, belting out any lingering unease. Getting yourself ready and letting the week’s stress seep from you.

The drive back into the city winds long, but passes quickly. Only forty minutes. But part of that convenience is negated by the absolute bear it is to find parking downtown. Another ten minutes of struggle before you get out—the urban parking gods not on your side tonight. Your car beeps with the lock and you sigh. It’ll be a longer walk.

The sun sinks behind the buildings and the orange glow of the streetlights paint the sidewalks. You bundle yourself in your jacket, shift your duffle higher on your shoulder, and start marching. One foot in front of the other. Glancing at familiar storefronts and navigating around the few passersby finding their Friday night adventure.

By the second block, you pause. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle. Eyes bore into you from behind. Heated, focused. You spin on your heel, but find no culprit. You swallow and breathe deep. Just your imagination, surely. Maybe.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath and turn to begin walking again. Quicker.

Your steps beat light on the pavement, though you don’t want to seem rushed. Trying to find a steady, rapid pace that doesn’t signal your distress. Still, the sensation doesn’t cease.

The evening gets darker and you see Chase’s studio in the distance. The industrial building looming and dark, intimidating. But your safe haven. The back door stands just within reach. You knock a rapid shave-and-a-haircut on the wood and wait for it to open. Phantom fingers dance along the back of your neck and you whip around. The alley stands empty save for a grimy dumpster and a few trash bags. Yet your heartbeat continues to thunder in your ears.

“There you are,” a gruff yet relieved voice exclaims. Long fingers wrap around your bicep and pull you in, the door closing behind you and cutting you off from your paranoia.

“Sorry,” you reply automatically, distracted before you shake away the adrenaline and turn to your friend. He beams brightly and lets his hand slip down to yours. With a turn on his heel, he guides you through the hallways to the back room. “Minor delay and had to find parking a few blocks away.”

“Don’t worry about it, li’l bird,” he shrugs and opens the door. “The room’s still filling out and Caleb is doing his sensation thing.”

You hum and enter behind your friend, setting your bag down in its usual place by the futon and shrugging off your coat. Your neck rolls on your shoulders, releasing any residual tension. Warm hands wrap over them and knead the muscles.

“You okay?” Chase asks, genuine concern in his voice. “You’re looking a little rattled.”

You lean into his gentle but firm touch, letting your eyes drift shut. Sinking into the feeling and focusing on it. Keeping yourself out of the instinctive loop of fright that lingers at the fringes of your mind. Chase’s hands travel down your back and over your sides—comforting, but objective in their precision.

“I’m fine,” you reply, breathy and calm. You pause, feeling his hands do the same. “Just,” you bite your lip, “maybe have the others keep a watch on the crowd tonight? I’ve had this strange feeling.”

Chase’s warm hands move back up to grasp your shoulders, reassuring in their press. “Of course.” He steps back and releases you. You spin to meet his eyes. “You know I always look out for my girl.” His lips lift in a soothing grin. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

You nod and begin to strip. Your blouse unbuttons and falls from your shoulders. Chase helps you step out of your skirt and grabs your outfit from your duffle. You change quickly from your everyday bra into the elaborate sports bra saved for these occasions. Chase helps straighten the straps, keeping them from turning on themselves and arranging them as they’re supposed to be. The bike shorts slide up your legs and sit at your waist. A quick peek in the mirror ensures you’re presentable—effortless yet alluring.

“You ready?” Chase asks softly.

You catch his eye in the mirror and nod with a small grin. “Ready.”

He offers his hand and you turn to accept it. Fingers squeeze around yours and draw you out. The crowd gathers around the elevated stage. The rig is all set up, the mats on the ground, the spotters standing on the fringes, everything waiting for you both.

Chase stops right by the steps up. He turns to you and takes your other hand in his. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you reply immediately. A deep breath calms your spiking heart and the butterflies in your tummy. Displaying yourself in such a vulnerable position never stops being terrifying—or exhilarating.

“Then come along, birdie.”

The lights blare bright on the stage. Hot and revealing. You cannot look to the crowd waiting out past your line of sight. You’d freeze if you did. Instead you keep your focus on Chase—your constant, your rock, your Dom.

He brings you to the center of the stage and releases your hands. His chin dips in a bid for you to kneel. You sink the onto the floor, hands resting on your thighs, waiting. Your eyes locked still on him.

“Good evening.” He addresses the crowd with all the charisma you expect from him. “I hope you’ve been enjoying yourselves.”

As he continues, you let your mind center on your body. Keeping yourself present, but counting your breaths and feeling the steady pulse of your heartbeat. Rope uncoils. Instructions and explanations fall to a rapt audience.

Chase walks over, turning his back to the crowd to face you. He smiles. “There’s my good girl,” he says just for you. Your lips stretch, preening at the compliment.

He cups your cheeks, tilting your face up. His lips descend to press a kiss to your forehead before he finds the bite of his rope and begins.

The rope slides over your exposed skin. Each caress precise, purposeful. Chase works quickly, but pauses every so often to address the audience again or check in with you. Your arms lift. You bend and submit to the way he moves your body. The rope cinches too tight. You wince. Immediately, Chase corrects it.

Around and around, you’re bound. Your thoughts quiet, steady and calm. The last knot ties everything together and Chase steps away.

Another speech before he positions you and the hooks pull taut. You breathe deep, preparing yourself. Your body rises from the stage, suspended. Like you’re flying. It takes a moment to adjust. Chase places his hand on your side, grounding you in the way you need. Your eyes fall shut. Blissful in the darkness behind your eyelids.

Chase stays nearby. He watches. The spotters watch. The people watch. You’re used to the appreciation. Admiring the way you hang from the ceiling, the way your body contorts to the shape of Chase’s vision.

Music begins to play through the studio. You hang like a piece of art. Whispers and conversations pick up until it’s the drone of a crowd filling the high ceilings. Talk about your dedication and grace. Discussion of Chase’s skill. Various mingling. But all the buzz of the background mellows in your head. Your blood flowing through your veins and the tension of the rope on your frame.

Chase brings you down earlier than usual. He lowers the rig and starts to untie you, except for the final ring that keeps you hooked. You stay there for a few minutes until he’s certain of your stability.

All the while, he begins your favorite part. His hands pet over your limbs. The blood already pooling under your skin, creating tender contusions. He whispers words of affirmation and praise. You savor the bliss of his aftercare and feel exhaustion’s tug.

The spotters dissemble the rest of the rig and release you from the final tether. Chase’s arm wraps about your shoulders and the two of you exit off the stage to wind your way back to your room.

It’s quick, habitual work for Chase to prepare the futon for your nap. And you sink onto the bed with a sigh. The mattress dips beside you. Your Dom strokes his hand over you head. As always, he insists you drink electrolyte water and eat a little snack, each presented to your lips by his own hand.

“You did so good for me, li’l bird,” he whispers, coaxing you toward rest. “Just close your eyes for me and I’ll let you sleep for a while.”

You hum in response, knowing he’ll stay beside you until you’re under. A thought drifts toward the surface before it escapes your grasp, floating away from you until it’s gone and you’re asleep.

By Monday morning, you’ve forgotten the encounter with Ransom Drysdale, too distracted by your weekend to remember an insignificant meeting. Pleasantly fuzzy feelings and bright spirits follow you in your drive to the Thrombey estate. But it all evaporates when you turn toward the house and see Ransom standing there, leaning against one of the porch columns. A grimace twists his lips and his arms fold across his chest.

“So, you’re grandad’s research assistant,” he says with a derisive edge to his tone.

“Morning, Mr. Drysdale,” you return on a whisper, waking past him and into the house. Ignoring the derogatory sting of his remark.

His brow furrows and he follows. You take off your coat and scarf, hanging each with care in the entryway. The whole time, Ransom’s stormy presence grows increasingly agitated behind you. When your feet turn toward the kitchen for a calming cup of tea, you take only one step before finding yourself flailing and dragged backward by a strong arm clutching at your waist.

The hard wall of Harlan’s office digs into your back. But you would take that discomfort if not for the fire flashing in Ransom’s eyes.

“Your grandfather is waiting for me,” you say without inflection, staring at him and waiting for his tantrum to cease—for him to get bored and release you. “Please let me go.”

His lips screw up in disdain before he responds with an decisive, “No.”

You keep your breath even, refusing to let him get under your skin. Hoping you haven’t unintentionally gotten under his.

“Tell me how you came to be Harlan’s assistant.”

You don’t reply. The hallway clock ticks. Your nerves spike as it continues, knowing Harlan expects promptness.

“You’re being quite rude, pigeon,” he says after a tense minute, stretching his arms to brace against the wall, keeping you cornered but elongating his body in a spectacle of power. He leans close, invading your space until his breath brushes your cheek. “Why don’t you coo for me? I would hate to have to contact my Uncle Walt at the publishing company and get your position filled by someone more…friendly.”

A swallow clicks in your throat. “Mr. Drysdale, your grandfather hired me himself, and I’m not directly associated with Blood Like Wine Publishing,” you explain in clipped syllables, clinging to your calm while he looms closer.

His brow quirks in intrigue and his lips press into another smirk. Words form on his tongue. But as the stairs creak at someone’s approach, they remain unspoken.

“There you are,” Harlan calls from the stair landing, peering into his office. “Come along, dear, time to get to work.”

His eyes flash to his grandson, a sharp look challenging his obstructive position. Ransom meets it and they lock gazes for a charged moment. You take your window of opportunity for what it is, surging forward under Ransom’s left arm. In the space between his frame and the wall paneling, you squeeze through. Though your body drags against his and your balance falters, you get past. Ransom grunts in displeasure and protests, but you march your way upstairs following your boss.

“Be careful of him,” Harlan warns in a whisper as you pass him along the stairs.

You nod and continue on. A final glance over your shoulder confirms your suspicions. Ransom remains planted in place, jaw ticking and arms crossed. His attention focuses on your retreating figure, brow furrowed in thought—a glint in his eye you instinctively fear.

In. Out. You focus on breathing. A steady cadence, a calming exercise. Your safety and escape with the ropes biting into your flesh.

This week pushed your limits. Every day affected by unease—following like a burning gaze. You’ve seen little of Harlan’s grandson. Yet every time you feel yourself tipping into that unsettled state, you find your thoughts turning toward him.

In. Out. Now is not the time to think about it. Not when you don’t have to. Not in this state. Suspended above the mats. On display. In. Out. Focus. It works, mind drifting on the softy syllables of Chase’s conversation with a curious patron. Grounding you, guiding you toward peace.

Until it returns. That burning prickle at the back of your neck. The paranoia. It sets your teeth on edge. Despite your head being supported above your heart in tonight’s position, it becomes light, dizzy. Your eyes snap open, darting from face to face. Searching for his sinister features.

A flash—brown hair, sharp blue eyes, a regal sloping nose, a tan coat. It’s just a glimpse, but you meet their eye and see the beginnings of a smirk. Your vision swims. The studio blurs. Your heart pounds in your ears. You swallow, throat dry.

A croak escapes your lips. Chase’s concern meets your panic immediately. The spotters step forward, but his form eclipses your view of the rest of the studio—the crowd, the figure hidden amongst them—first. Your Dom reaches out to you and steadies the unconscious flail of your limbs. His fingers stroke across your skin. Slowly, it calms you. Your fear receding in the surety of his presence.

“Do you need to come down?” he asks, ready at a moment’s notice to lower you back to the ground—cut you out of the rope, if need be—and sweep you away to the safety of your room.

“No,” you say after a minute and a few deep breaths. “I thought…” Your words trail off in a mumble as you shake the silliness of your concerns away. It couldn’t have been Ransom. How would he know about this? It’s your mind playing tricks on you.

Chase examines you a moment longer before conceding with a wary nod. He steps back, letting the flood of the room rush back. Your eyes close again to force your way back down to comforting darkness. In. Out. In. Out.

Yet the evening becomes soured by that one moment. Chase’s distance expands like a chasm between you as he unwinds the rope from your body and steadies your walk back to your room. His methodical aftercare lacks in a way that sears a hole deep in your belly. Though you can’t name why. You wait for his tenderness to make it all feel better, but it doesn’t.

He settles you down on your futon and presses a chaste kiss to your forehead. His eyes flicker with that same concern, but he says nothing more of it. Simply feeds you your snack and tilts your water past your lips. They slosh uneasy in your stomach, but you follow your routine, praying for some solace.

His muttered praises do little to coax you toward rest. Fidgeting and turning over and over, you body thrums even as you feel the weight of exhaustion. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to give in. Chase stays a moment longer before leaving you to the sticky blackness of sleep.

Though it’s not long until you’re disturbed. Like pulling you up through tar, you find the surface. Your reluctance to awaken keeps your eyes stubbornly shut, but the figure beside you strokes their hand over your head. You sigh and a small smile twitches at your lips. The touch soothes your soul.

“Chase,” you mumble on a sleepy murmur. He makes no response, but lets his fingers trail over your cheek. Your hand reaches out, grasping his and tucking it close to your chest. “Stay with me til I’m back asleep?” A yawn punctuates your request. He says nothing but stays beside you. His legs stretch alongside your body. And he makes no protest when you half-consciously scoot closer, letting you cling to him for the first time as you sink once again.

Harlan’s warning rings constant in your mind, “Be careful of him.” But there is no careful—there’s no more safety, no escape. Because you weren’t wrong. That figure in the crowd, watching you and sending you spiraling toward panic—that was Ransom. Following you again and again to the studio. Each week struggling to find a way to bring it up with Harlan, and failing. Each weekend spent suspended with Ransom’s eyes piercing through you.

You’ve tracked his approach, stalking closer and closer to the stage with each passing week. His eyes never leaving you. Not concerned with whatever Chase says. He has his focus. And it never wavers.

He doesn’t glare or glower—his observation far from menacing. Though foreboding still blares at the back of your mind each time your gaze meets. And you cannot stop yourself. Hanging from the rigging, you always find him. Your heart always lurches before you cut away the room by closing your eyes.

You drift awake, rested from your nap. Your phone proclaims the time and you groan at the early hour before sitting up on your futon and stretching. Muscles protest in the most delicious way and your lips tilt toward a grin. With a roll of your neck, you stand to gather your belongings into your duffle so you can return home.

The door to your small room clicks behind you. A step, two, and you catch a dark figure in you periphery. Your bones jump and you gasp. Turning toward the intruder, you clutch at your heart. Your diaphragm starts spasming, hiccups bobbing up your throat.

“Who,” you hiccup, “Who’s there?”

They step forward, their head bent and hands hanging by their sides. The glint of the ring on his pinky catches the light. You lick your lips and hiccup again. A hand presses to your abdomen hoping to calm the convulsions of the muscle.

“Oh, pigeon, did I scare you?” His mirth grates on your thin tolerance. He doesn’t do anything technically inappropriate during the demonstrations, but this confrontation is.

“Mr. Drysdale,” you say with a heavy breath, trying to swallow around the hiccups. “Why are you here?

Amusement continues to dance bright in his eyes. You’re just waiting for him to start laughing at you. Like there’s a cosmic joke to which you aren’t privy. But you’re willing to wait while he explains himself. All the while starting to feel sick from the incessant hiccups—and maybe something more.

“Let’s just say I have an itch I need you to scratch,” he replies with a teasing shrug.

“That doesn’t explain much, Mr. Drysdale.”

His jaw ticks and the amused light in his eyes dims a fraction. He shifts on his feet and stands straighter. The glint of a gold watch shines in the light. You swallow at the reminder of his status and your precarious position in the hallway with him—the ways this could spiral unpleasantly numerous and beginning to swarm in your head. A thought of Chase materializes in your mind. His bedroom nearby but too far all at the same time.

“Call me Ransom,” he suggests, though even the way his head ticks to the side reads more as a command than counsel.

“Right,” you mumble with a hint of disregard—too focused on yourself, your position. Your eyes dart around the cramped hallway, looking for an escape. “What do you want?”

He hums, deep and threatening in his throat. “You.” The statement simple. Yet it rocks your world—sends you reeling and off-kilter. But he continues, “You see, I can admit you intrigued me on our first meeting. Especially after Harlan refused to tell me much about you other than your job title.” He sighs and takes a step closer. In retreat, you press yourself to the wood of the door. “Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since. And I need to fix that.” His arm cages you in, resting beside your head as he leans forward, crowding into you. “So,” he says, drawing out the word. His chin dips and his voice lowers to a whisper. “Name you price.”

Your chest jumps in another hiccup, voice jumping with it when you yelp, “What are you talking about?”

A smirk twitches on his lips. “I’m a very wealthy man. I need one night to get you out of my system.” His breath brushes your cheek. “Name. Your. Price.”

You sputter, mind whirring. You’re not naïve. You know for what he’s asking. You used to consider it, when the rent wasn’t adding up—before Chase, before Harlan. But not with someone like him. Your tongue swipes over your lips. His gaze continues to wander over you, examining you like a slab of meat.

“Five hundred thousand dollars?” The number, plucked from the air, grits past your clenched teeth in hopes it will deter him.

He grins and gives you a sliver more space to breathe. “Done.”

You gape in shock. Such an easy agreement. “Wait—”

“Do you want more?” His fingers tickle along your throat while his brow quirks in curiosity.

Your head shakes, vehemently against it. “No. I don’t—”

“Then, what’s the problem, pidge?” His voice husks, a moment away from descending upon you. The glimmer in his eyes hungry.

“I don’t want you,” you reply. The force of your statement knocks him back. His head tilts and his jaw ticks in irritation. His gaze narrows. “I wouldn’t want you for a million.” You push at him, but he doesn’t budge. Too strong, too firm.

His nostrils flare with his ire. A deep breath expands his lungs, pressing his chest to yours. He closes his eyes and calms himself. When he captures you again with his sapphire blue eyes, they’re softer. The sharpness dulled for his plea.

“Look, pidge,” Ransom croons. Sweet as pie but far too deadly. “It’s one night. That’s all.” He backs away, though he keeps his touch close by, ready to swoop back in and strangle you. “You’ll get one million dollars, alright? I never bother you again—never show up to this dump, never meet you at granddad’s. You’re done with me and I’m finally done with you. Got better things to do anyway.”

He lets you think. The moment stretches taut between you. Your hiccups the only disturbance.

“I’ll never have to see you again?” you ask, wary of his answer.

He grins, triumphant. As if he’s already won—which he has. A million dollars can do a lot for you. Clear most of your debt. Make your paycheck stretch further for a little while. Maybe give you a little cushion for a rainy day.

“When?”

“Oh, I knew you’d say yes.” He smirks and trails his fingertips over your cheeks. You turn your head away but he follows, ducking to catch your eye. “You made the right choice. I’m gonna give you the night of your life.”

Air expands your lungs and escapes in a steady hiss. Another hiccup interrupts the stream and you close your eyes in frustration. Lips press to your cheek. You jerk away, startled.

“I’ll text you the details, pidge.”

He leaves, his business concluded by sneaking a pat to your ass. The hallway expands around you once more and fills with your precarious relief.

The door looms too tall before you. You eye the keycard slot. Check the time on your phone. Another minute passed. You wonder if he knows you’re here. Your hand rests on your abdomen for a moment, calming your nerves. Your other reaches out and swipes the card. The light blinks green. You breathe deep, open the door, and stop right in your tracks.

There in the center of this great, grand hotel room sits Ransom cushioned by a big black leather chair. You swallow hard and glance over your shoulder. Your heartbeat flutters anxiously in your throat. You take a step back. Fingers cling tight to the doorknob. You clear your throat.

“Well,” he hums with a twisted grin, “there you are. I guess it’s true—amazing what some people will do for a chunk of change.” He eyes your position, still straddling the threshold and clutching at the doorknob. “You gonna try to run?” His brow quirks and he stands, relaxed and unconcerned. His hands shove deep in his pockets, but his sweater sleeves sit folded up near his elbows. “I thought you were braver than that, pidge.”

With a defiant tilt of your chin, you step forward and let the door close behind you—accepting his challenge. It brings a smug grin to Ransom’s face, but you ignore it by setting aside your bag and toeing off your shoes.

“How are we going to do this?” you ask without looking at him. “Do you have some kind of contract? Or will oral negotiations suffice?” You grab a small notebook from your purse and the attached pen, releasing it from its holder and clicking the cam down.

The scoff and eye roll you receive in reply sets your teeth on edge. Ransom shakes his head and says, “we’re not going to do that, no matter how fun oral negotiations sound.”

You blink. “But—” you begin in your shock before closing your lips and clearing your throat to gather your thoughts. “I realize this is for one night only, but it’s important—”

“You’re right,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand, turning his back on you and meandering around the back of the chair. “This is only for one night. We don’t need all that boring shit. I want to fuck you, not exchange friendship bracelets.” As he comes around to settle on the cushion, he tucks something beside him you can’t catch. “Now.” He leans forward. You stare, entranced by the confidence of his movements. The way his fingers clench on the arms of the chair and his chin tilts. “Get on your knees.”

They threaten to buckle at the command, but you stand firm. Still uncomfortable with this little exchange, you’re not yet ready to start. Not like this. Your tongue lashes out to lick your lips, eyes darting about for something to prolong the conversation. Another question to ask, another point to make.

“Will you listen if I safeword at least?” you ask as your toes tap on the floor in a nervous rhythm. The notebook in your hand crinkles with your grip until you place it and the pen back in your bag.

“You have my word,” Ransom promises, hand pressed—sincere or mocking—to his chest. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Not exactly.”

He chuckles and shrugs. Whether his word means anything, you don’t know. All you know is that he’s not getting any more patient. He nods toward his feet, the open place between his knees.

You take a moment to gather yourself and find that safe space in your head, taking slow steps to approach him. Watching him—wary of any sudden shift. The fluffy carpet meets your knees when you sink down. Closing your eyes, you concentrate on steadying your breath.

Ransom waits—for what, you couldn’t guess. Until he rasps, “Open your eyes. Look at me like you look at him.”

Your eyes snap open and meet his. “Like him?”

But he simply holds up a pair of padded cuffs, dangling from his index finger. “You want me to stop, you say ‘Hugh’. Understand?”

Your head bobs in a nod, keeping eye contact. “Yes, Mr. Drysdale.”

In a flash, he grips your chin with his free hand. His fingers dig into your cheeks, anger flaring in his gaze. “You. Call me. Ransom.”

You swallow hard at the abrasive grit in his tone. “Yes, Ransom,” you respond with a stilted nod.

“Good,” he hums in satisfaction, “I prefer good girls.”

The tension drips away as he releases your face. Fingers scratch at his jaw and he stretches, relaxing back into the cushion of the chair. The cuff chain clinks, drawing your attention. His follows, lips twitching toward a smirk.

“Now, can we begin?” he asks with a raise of his brow.

“Yes, Ransom,” you reply, resisting the urge to drop your gaze. Unsure of what reaction might await at such a disregard for his request, but unwilling to risk a punishment—not from him.

“Give me your hands.”

You offer them up, blood vibrating in your veins. He holds them gently despite his prickish nature. The cuffs wrap around your wrists, latching snug to your skin. Perfect—not too tight or too loose. You stare at them. The detailed leather work. The minky lining. The safety buckle ready to release at a moment’s notice. They’re quality, expensive—an indication of forethought, research, commitment.

A weight lifts from your shoulders. The nerves buzzing inside you start to disperse. With a final pat to the leather, his hands stray to explore your body. He traces the curve of your lips. He feels your pulse throbbing at your throat. He cups your breasts and kneads the flesh until your breath hitches.

“Just like that,” he purrs while toying with you. “You’re gonna sing for me, aren’t you?” He plucks at your nipples through your shirt, staring you down to drink in your reaction.

You swallow a whimper—needy and plaintive. Thoughts flurry in your head tinged by heat. Submission tempts, at odds with an insistence on remaining in control. He catches the hesitance when your teeth worry your lower lip. He clicks his tongue in disappointment, and your heart lurches.

He lets the silence settle around you both, reclining back and taking his touch with him. A minute ticks by. His attentions drift over you, searching. Only he knows for what. Your lungs draw in a steady flow of air, each calmer than the last. Your hands itch in impatience, craving contact. Your fingers flex toward him. The chain rattles.

Ransom reads something in that sound and tilts his head, lowering his lips to yours. You blink, unsure of your boundaries with such intimacy, but he swallows any protest with a kiss.

You expect it to be harsh and demanding. Clacking teeth and a suffocating intrusion. That’s not what you get. The way he kisses you like a lover locked in a forbidden embrace between the stacks of an old library—sensual, passionate, and all-consuming. Letting you taste a hint of his hunger, his desperation.

Your bound hands raise to cup his jaw. Drawn to him like a magnet. Because this is the best you’ve ever been kissed. Sure, you’ve been kissed by amateurs, by creeps, by lovers, but nothing like this. It’s addictive.

Without meaning to, you sigh your delight against his lips. His twitch toward a smirk, even as he licks into your mouth and drinks you in. His hands cradle your throat and tilt your head back. The dance between you a delicious exercise of control.

With one last brush of his lips to yours, he draws away. Your head floats, hazy with the sparks of lust ignited by his kiss. Unconsciously, you follow his retreat, leaning up to him like a flower seeking the sun.

He stands, a slow movement that breaks your hold until your falling hands rest upon his thighs. He stares down at you, a conceited pleasure glinting in his appraisal. But you’re past the point of caring or becoming peeved by his superior attitude. You just want him to kiss you like that again. It’s only for one night anyway, what does it matter if he’s proud of himself for making you his plaything—or that you think you’ll enjoy every minute of it.

“Up,” he beckons with an outstretched hand.

You place your hands in his and rise. He squeezes and saunters toward the bed. A noise of approval rolling in his throat, observing your body.

“We’ll need to fix this,” he says with a gesture. You glance down—the plain tee, the jean shorts, your socks. He steps forward, pressing his lips to your ear. “You wear something special for me, pidge?”

You swallow, but can’t answer. Voice stuck in your throat.

“That’s okay,” he coos, playing with the collar of your shirt. “I’ll see soon enough.”

Fabric falls from your body. It pools on the floor at your feet. Your gaze falls with each article of clothing. Exposed to his scrutiny, you stand in your best lingerie set. Thinking he should get what he paid for, you’d donned it but now find a seed of apprehension blooming in your belly. Another thing he’ll nitpick or tease.

“Look at that,” he rasps, hand smoothing across your waist and gripping you close. Your feet stumble over each other and you brace yourself against his chest. “So pretty and just for me.” His fingers pluck at a bow on the front of your bra.

A shock of arousal hits you at his praise, leaving your knees weak. Gripping at his shoulders, you try to support yourself, and his eyes shine with amusement.

“You like when I talk sweet to you, pidge?”

He spins on his heels and takes you with him. With another stumble and a toss, your back bounces on the mattress. You gaze up at him, eyes wide as he chuckles and undoes his belt. With a snick of his zipper, he releases himself and strokes his cock. And, god you hate to admit it, it’s a thing of beauty. You meet his eye and feel the heat crawling up your cheeks.

He quirks his eyebrow and dips his chin. You push yourself clumsily to kneel before him on the soft mattress. His fingers trace your lips until your tongue licks over them. He smirks and leads you down with a firm hand.

The first tentative taste of his flesh sends a shiver up his spine and a breath puffing from his lips. You kiss his tip, eyes locked with his. His cock twitches. He growls and urges you forward until he enters your mouth and rests on your tongue. You purr around him and begin in earnest.

A few bobs of your head work him back as far as you can manage. Eyes close as you focus on your task. Head drifting on greedy waves of sensation and muscle memory, you swallow him further and further. Listening, yearning to hear how you affect him. Drool pools on your tongue, stimulating every part of him it can reach. Part of you wishes you might have your hands free, if only to feel him. Urge him further toward release.

His hips buck against your face and you gag. But he keeps you steady, a guiding hand pressed to the back of your head, gripping and massaging your scalp.

“So cute,” he muses with a brush of his fingers over your forehead. “Look up at me, li’l birdie.” Your eyes flutter open, waterline wet with the start of tears. Ransom smiles down at you and winks. You hum around him. His head falls back on his neck with a groan, abdominals flexing as he pulls you off and up. A weak noise of protest escapes your lips, plump with blood from the stretch of his cock. He pants, tongue darting out to lick over your swollen flesh. “Not bad,” he comments with a tilt of his head. “But I think I’m ready for a bit more, aren’t you?”

With a hand smoothing across your throat, his other lowers to find the apex of your thighs. A twist and pinch, a rip and your panties fall away. His fingers free to explore the most intimate part of you. You whine at the squelch of your arousal. The slickness shamefully copious as he plays with your pussy and grins. He hums in delight, but doesn’t say anything. That sound enough of a gloat to humiliate you.

“I can’t help it,” you protest, brow tilting pathetically.

“Oh,” he croons, smearing his lips across your cheek, “I know.” The gentle mocking of his words pierce through you. You huff in pitiful indignation.

His fingers pinch at your lower lips and your hips jolt. He barks a laugh, but his touch turns nicer. Stroking over your folds and swirling around your clit. Your breath hitches. The sensation curling in your belly, building your pleasure. Teeth nip at your pulse point, startling you. Ransom chuckles against your skin and begins to suck.

You’re weak with him. The prick of his teeth and the soothing swipe of his tongue mingling with the skill of his fingers. Filling your head until you can hardly think. Moans and gasps build in your chest, too persistent to ignore. Just as you reach the precipice of your climax, though, Ransom stops.

He grips your chin with sticky fingers, pecks a kiss to your gaping lips, and smirks. “Not yet.”

Once again your back finds the mattress. You stretch out, bones jelly and blood thrumming. You crave release now. More than you can say, leaving you only able to reach out as he strips off his sweater and jeans.

A chiseled Adonis he is not. Muscles flex beneath skin supple with just the slightest layer of cushion borne from a life of luxury and indulgence. So when he descends and pins you to the bed, you feel it against you—his strength and softness.

He slots himself between your thighs, pulling them up to his hips. His cock finds its place, slicking itself against your sex. You sigh and loop your bound hands around his neck.

You bite back a “please,” but he sees it shining in your eyes and denies you. Content to roll his hips. Each thrust knocking the head of his cock against your clit until you whine and wriggle beneath him.

“Don’t be like that, pidge,” he says with a mocking pout, swiping a thumb over you cheek where unbidden tears fall from your eyes. “I’ll let you have what you want.”

With the slightest shift, he prods at your entrance. Bare. You breath hitches. Hands grip at his hair.

“Protection!” you protest at the last minute, surfacing from the lusty daze with fear in your eyes.

Ransom takes it in stride, continuing his persistence. “What for?” he asks with another roll of his hips. A delicious, sparkling sensation skitters up your spine. “I’m clean, you’re clean, you’re on birth control. Right?” The drawl of his voice accompanies his descent toward your neck. Another nip and suck of your skin as you reluctantly nod. He reaches a hand down between your bodies, gripping his dick. “Then there’s no problem here, pidge.”

You whimper, “I—”

He thrusts into you. The stretch divine. His gorgeous cock filling you inch by inch until you ache. A moan rips from the depths of you, a wounded sound of pleasure. Your eyes squeeze shut, sweat dotting your brow. How can a douche like Ransom Drysdale feel so right when he’s inside you?

He pauses, eyes squeezed shut and chest heaving. “Fuck,” he hisses beneath his breath. Your own hips roll in an attempt to adjust, but his hand lashes out to stop you. His grip tight. “Squeezing me like a vice, pidge.” The husk of his voice, the strain, the need dripping from each word, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ransom,” you plead with a gentler tug at the roots of his hair, “please move.”

His eyes open, the blue tinged dark with desire. His lips part around a shuddering breath. Finding his composure, he tilts his hips, filling you just that little bit more until you gasp. “I’m gonna fill you up just right. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

There’s not a moment more to prepare yourself before he begins fucking you. The drag of his cock against your walls enough to make an endless stream of sounds dribble from your lips. You grip him for dear life. The clap of your bodies filling the room with your moans and heavy breaths.

Ransom takes and takes, filling you and grinding against you until your vision blurs. You cum on his cock, screaming your release. Your knees squeeze his sides. You cling to him. Yet no matter how he ruins you, he keeps going. To sate his own pleasure, to see you crumble just a little more, to chase some ineffable desire.

It takes him longer. The stutter of his hips, the warmth of his cum flooding you. You mewl, hips shifting at the sensation.

“Hold still,” he commands, gripping your face with one hand.

His other travels down your body. Pausing to play with the sensitive beads of your nipples. You squeak. But his true destination lay between your thighs where he keeps himself nestled. Your clit throbs with your pulse, overstimulated and tender. You tense, bracing for whatever his plans.

He plucks at the aching bundle of nerves despite your every twitter of protest. Smirk plastered on his face. His intentions clear as he rips another orgasm from you and another. Letting you milk his swelling cock with your sex.

Your tongue swipes across your dry lips. Knowing by the wiggle of his hips he prepares himself for another round—one that will surely be a delicious torment. Your head shakes, arms tightening around him. Hoping your silent pleas will be understood. Already overwhelmed by the night’s exertion.

But he starts again, pleasure gleaming in his eyes every time he knocks your aching clit with his pelvis. You reel with the sensations scourging your body. The way the pain washes over you with the sweetest hint of pleasure. That hint just enough to keep your mind searching for more. Clinging closer and rolling your hips in tandem with his.

Your head lolls on your shoulders, sure to keep your eyes locked with his. Knowing he might stop if you let them wander just a moment—both needing and dreading that brief reprieve.

“There we go, that’s what I’m looking for,” he purrs staring deep into your glassy eyes.

Sweat dampens his chest, pressed against you as he cages you in with his weight. His fingers lift, two of them prodding your lips and delving into your mouth. Your tongue tangles with them, teeth nipping his knuckles. You swallow around them and they withdraw, trailing a cool line of saliva down your throat. His wet fingers trail beneath the cups of your bra, pinching at the tender buds. A raw moan rises out of you at a particularly wicked thrust of his cock. And another. You shudder, an unstoppable wave of pleasure ripping through you and leaving you in a fit of pained euphoria.

But Ransom says nothing more. A look shining in his eyes, thoughtful and indecipherable. If you could contemplate the dawning of such a look, you might. Though, with the rush of your own orgasm flooding your head, the stutter of his hips and the spill of his cum, you’re lost. He falls off you with a grunt, sprawling across the open area of the bed.

“Shit,” he mutters to the room. Sweat glistens along his skin and musses his hair. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths. A hand wipes over his face. You might have taken offense to the utter disbelief radiating from him, if so inclined.

Instead, you rise, prising through the quick release of the cuffs. Emptiness and pain halts your movement. An ache between your thighs that plucks its sweet agony. No choice but to push through it.

As Ransom recovers, you gather your things. Aftercare far from your thoughts. Willing to face any possible repercussions yourself and in your own space. You dress hastily, intuition begging for retreat. Knowing that another moment with him might cement something inside you. Something you know will only end in pain and disappointment.

Each step, each movement he follows with his eyes. They burn into you. Whether in anger or some other resentment, you don’t know—don’t need to know. Slipping your shoes on at the door and gathering your bag, he says nothing to stop you. You pause with your hand on the doorknob and glance over your shoulder. He continues to rest on the bed, body gloriously lax, and stares. Quiet and contemplative. You leave him there.

All thought of the money forgotten. No. All you want now is to escape that seductive lure he offers. You pray he’ll keep his word. That you’ll receive what he feels he owes. You’ll manage with what you’ve got until he does and start forgetting this night ever happened. Move on, work with Harlan, perform with Chase—lead your normal life.

You rush from the hotel, cool morning air slapping you in the face. You stop and tilt your head back. Your regret washes over you. Your lips press together, holding it back. Keeping it at bay.

The trek home stretches before you. Tenuous hope growing that you’ll never see Ransom Drysdale again, even as you feel the fierce burn of a gaze at your back.

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale fanfic #dark #dark fic #dub con #tw dub con #yandere vibes #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 5 months

Text

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: Of course, you had to fall sick. What else could possibly happen when you’re being kept in some bastard’s basement?

Word Count: 2,956

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark, Non Con (non-sexual), Kidnapping, Basement Wife Trope, Manipulation, Legal Documents, Illness (mentions of Retching/Nausea, Fever), Swearing/Cursing, Bathing, Pet Names (honey, precious). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Not as grody as the last chapter, I promise. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know if I missed any tags. Happy Second Sunday of Attic Wives Advent! ❄️🎉🍾🙌🏻

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is unBeta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Your body shivers uncontrollably beneath the blanket. If only you had a mountain to burrow under. Something to keep you warm. Yet you’re sweating from every pore.

Hate burns deep in your belly, swirling with the nausea. That sick fuck is gonna leave you down here to die. Let the fever ravage you until you expire. No. You won’t let it. Your teeth grit even as they chatter. Burning rage fuels you, though exhaustion tugs at your eyelids. Sleep too tempting to resist, you plummet into it. Rest is good—it’ll help your body fight.

You awaken to a weight shifting beside you a few hours—who could say how many—later. Your eyes snap open, arms flailing to swat at the man sitting beside you. A weak growl rolls roughly in your throat.

“Hey, shhhh,” he soothes as he grabs your wrists.

You blink and squint into the dim lighting. It’s not Andy—the man imprisoning you in his basement. The older man beside you looks down at your shivering frame with something like pity shining in his eyes. He’s handsome, but you’ve learned to be wary of that. Too many fucked up experiences under your belt.

“What has Andy put you through?” he asks, muttering more to himself than to you.

You scowl and turn your head away from his hand lifted to check your temperature.

“Fuck off,” you grit from a sore throat.

“I’m here to help you,” the man says with a quick glance over his shoulder. “You can’t live like this.”

You blink up at him, suspicions dulled by a foggy head but still pricking at his smooth-talking. Like he expects you to believe him. He knows Andy. He’s probably in cahoots with him—friends, thick as thieves. Who knows what this wolf is hiding under his sheep’s clothing.

The door to the basement unlocks and opens. Andy enters with a tray filled with a plate, pill bottles, a single flower in a vase, a cup, and mug.

The man leans closer in quiet desperation. “Just trust me.” Even his insistence doesn’t persuade you, though something about his tone piques your curiosity. He stands and backs into a corner as your captor closes the door.

“There’s my girl,” Andy croons, approaching the bed and setting the tray next to it. “The doctor recommended plenty of fluids and to check your temperature about now.”

He presses the button and the device beeps before he slides it across your forehead. You scowl, but it doesn’t affect the path of the device as it reads your temperature.

“Oh, dear,” he mutters under his breath.

Andy places the thermometer aside and cradles your face in his hands. You bare your teeth, but you have so little energy to fight.

“Her temperature’s higher,” he says to the man in the corner. “What do I do?” His eyes plead, his fingers stroking over your cheek.

The man pushes himself away from the wall. He approaches and gently sits beside Andy. He removes your captor’s hands from your face. You slump, releasing the tension in your body. In your fuzzy brain, you can’t decipher the look the older man sends your way.

“You know what needs to happen,” he says with a pointed look toward your feet.

You unconsciously shift, the chains rattling under your blanket.

Andy sighs, his chin dropping toward his chest. “Yeah,” he admits in defeat.

Your ears prick beneath the heat of your fever. What is he doing?

He reaches for the button of his collared shirt. It pops open under his fingers and he reaches inside, drawing out a thin chain necklace and a dangling key. He hesitates with the key in his hand, but bends slowly toward your feet. He draws away the blanket and lifts your ankle to his lap. The click of the lock unlatching sounds like a hallelujah chorus. The chain and ankle cuff fall away with a clatter to the floor. Tears fill your eyes. It’s not much, but already you feel hope igniting in your heart. An opportunity, even if you can’t take it right now.

Without looking away from your foot, Andy asks, “do you really think this is—”

“Yes,” the older man interrupts.

A moment passes as the two men lock eyes. Andy sighs and leans down again to kiss your legs—higher up your thigh, exposing more of your skin to the cold air. If you could move, you’d kick his teeth in. But he keeps a gentle hand on your ankle in his lap, petting over and soothing the red skin. Even his softest touch stronger than what little you possess in your weakened body. His thumb strokes your ankle bone. You growl, but the sound cuts off into a coughing fit.

Andy rubs your back as he lifts you in your shivering cocoon of fever. Hiking you up into his arms and holding you close to his chest. He grunts. You protest with soft sounds of fury and surprise. Curses and spite sit on your tongue, unvoiced.

As he climbs the stairs up out of the dingy, disgusting basement you can’t even appreciate it, eyes closed to stave off the bubbling nausea in your gut. Sunlight blooms across your face. You open your eyes to be blinded. Such a normal home around you. Big windows leading to a lush green backyard.

Your lips open to scream, sure that this is your chance. All you manage is a weak croak.

“Shhh,” Andy shushes with his head tilting to rest his chin to your forehead. “Don’t exert yourself, honey. Everything’s okay.”

You turn your head and open your lips, biting into his shoulder. Your teeth ache with the pressure. He groans softly and tilts his head to press his lips to your forehead. You stop, stomach lurching.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He keeps climbing up another set of stairs and another like a ladder. The room he enters barely catches your notice, save for the lightness of its walls and its cleanliness.

The door just to the side of the entrance reveals an adjoining bathroom. He takes you in and sits you on the closed toilet in your blanket. Your eyes scan your surroundings. White tile gleams, pristine. A large sink sits in a quartz countertop which dips into a vanity. A shower head points into a large tub—big enough for at least two. You shudder and close your eyes for a moment to shield yourself from that gut-wrenching thought.

Water rushes from the faucet of the bathtub and he lets it fill. The sound of it grates in your head. Too loud, too much. Your feet itch. An attempt to stand and run leads to disappointment—dizziness and fatigue too much a hinderance. You groan. Though it catches his notice, Andy says nothing and continues to prepare towels and soaps for your bath.

You can admit that relief sparks at the prospect of finally getting clean. How long you’ve spent in that filthy, disgusting basement you couldn’t say. Don’t even want to guess. Nose-blind now to your own body odor, you can’t imagine how you smell, and you can’t bring yourself to look in the vanity’s mirror to see the state of your skin.

“Come here, honey,” Andy beckons while he approaches and tries to strip the blanket from your shoulders.

“No,” you grit between your teeth, clutching at the fabric.

With your impaired strength against his, it’s no wonder you lose. He balls the blanket and throws it out the door. A smug smile on his lips. You sneer.

Delighted at your inability to defend yourself, he hikes you back up into his arms and dips you into the water. One smooth motion with no time for you to snap at him as your bottom finds the porcelain of the tub. Violent shivers wrack your body. The water, it’s too cold. Your hands grip the edge, searching for leverage to hoist yourself out of the glacial water.

Andy’s hold you down. “Hey, let your body get used to it. The doctor said lukewarm water would help lower your temperature.” His eyes shine down at you, a farce of kindness and sympathy. Too consumed by drinking in your bare figure beneath the water.

Your lips tremble too much to do more than sputter hateful sounds. But your captor doesn’t seem to mind as he begins to douse your shoulders and hair with water and foam up a loofah with body wash.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” you manage to bite as his hand approaches.

“Do you think you can wash yourself, honey?” he asks, all concern and encouragement—evil bastard. “Here.” He offers the loofah to your hands. “You can go ahead.”

The frustration builds. Your hands fumble the soapy loofah before it falls into the bath water. You try again, but each effort to wash your limbs ends in struggle and defeat.

“It’s alright, precious girl,” Andy coos with a pleased glint in his eye, “let me help you.”

You’ve no choice. Not when he takes the loofah and softly scrubs it over your shoulders. With the warmth of the water and your waning energy, it’s no contest. You sink down into the water while he manipulates your limbs.

“You know,” he mentions as he tilts your head back and grabs a soft washcloth for your face. “I’m not a bad guy, honey.” He smooths the soapy cloth over your face and clears it from the dust and debris of the basement. “I just wanted us to have our best chance.”

“Holy hell,” you mutter under your breath, leaning into the distortion of your syllables through your slightly stuffed nose.

A knock sounds from the door. Your head lifts from its position. Sputtering through the water that splashes in your eyes, you huff a frustrated breath.

“I have everything ready out here,” the other man says through the wood.

“Thanks,” Andy calls over his shoulder, turning back to you with a smile. “It’s all gonna be better, you’ll see.”

Curses run through your head, scenarios forming. Each one worse than the next. What hell are they going to put you through now? Andy tips your head back further and soaks your hair with water.

“I know this might take a moment, but I’ve researched what’s best for your hair.” Pride exudes from his words, like he’s expecting praise from you. As fucking if.

He squeezes shampoo into his hand and begins. Each step he does with the utmost care. Like you’re some precious, fragile doll fit for breaking. You wonder how deeply he researched—what effort were you worth? He pours more water over your head and shields your eyes.

God fucking dammit. You’re enjoying it. The pampering. The care. The gentle touch. You retch over the side of the tub, a dry convulsion of your stomach. His hand rubs over your back to soothe you. You want to scream. But you fall back into the lukewarm water, shivers running up your spine, and let him finish. The sooner he does, the sooner you stop that traitorous train of thought in its tracks.

Once he completes the last step of his routine, he pulls the plug on the drain and leaves you in the murky, receding water. You let your fingers drift until it’s all gone, disgusted by the grime sloughed from your skin.

“Oh,” he says, coming back to your side with a fluffy towel. He stares at the last dregs of water like you. “Maybe one last rinse, precious.”

By the time you’re truly done with your bath, you can’t even complain when he helps you stand and wraps you in the fluffy towel. Relief flowing too heavy to fight him off. He cradles you close to his chest and runs his hands along your waist, reveling in your semi-compliant state.

“There we go,” he sighs in delight. “Nice and clean.”

You grumble but can admit you feel much better. Your head clears as you stand there in his arms, despite the sickness still swirling around in your body and leaving a cloudy haze behind.

Andy escorts you out to the larger room. You glance around. But you halt your perusal, confused by the stranger from before seated at a small table. Before him spreads several papers. You’re sat beside him, Andy’s hands a firm weight on your shoulders.

“Andy,” he addresses your captor, “why don’t we let her have a moment to herself?”

Andy pipes up a noise of protest. “She needs to—”

“Andrew,” he admonishes, “give her a break.”

Andy sighs and squeezes your shoulders. You glance up at him. Irritation narrows his gaze. But they both leave.

You gawk after them. Flabbergasted by the sway the older man has over Andy. The way Andy defers to him. Could this man really help you get out of here? You keep to your observations of them until the door shuts behind them, disbelief and suspicion waning.

The room falls silent around you. With a chance for a better look around, you notice the light grey walls, the white crown moulding, the tufted headboard on the bed and matching furniture. It looks like someone threw up a Pottery Barn catalogue and a Live Laugh Love Pinterest board, and it congealed into this room. Not your style at all. You grimace.

Another door stands in the corner—you pray for a closet. You walk over and open it, finding not much. A few frilly dresses, and that’s all. Your brow furrows in disappointment. Better than being naked, you grab one off the hanger and throw it over your head. At least there’s no zipper to grapple with.

You tug and smooth the fabric over your stomach and legs. The dress not to your preference, it clings uncomfortably to your frame. Your feet find their way back to the table, you glance at the array of documents. Fingers flip through a few of them before your vision swims and the door opens again, just a crack.

“Are you decent?” the stranger whispers through the small space.

“As good as I’m gonna get,” you respond with a sigh and a hand massaging your forehead.

With your reply, he sneaks into the room and closes the door behind him. He glances to the fingers still pressed to the papers and those kneading at your temple.

“Did you get a chance to read through them?” he asks with a nod of his head toward the table.

You shake yours. “But it looks like some kind of contract.”

“You’re right.” His hand raises to comb his hair back. It flops over and brushes his cheeks. “Mostly, it’s a non-disclosure agreement. A few other bits and pieces.”

“For what?”

“Andy’s a lawyer,” he explains while taking a seat at the table. “He understands legal documents. I suggested this as a way to help you.” His hands sweep in a gesture above the papers.

“Why?” you ask, the words tinged with suspicion as you sink into the seat across from him.

“Why what?” he asks with a tilt of his head.

“Why do you want to help me?”

The man lets out a heavy breath and stretches his hands across the table. “Andy’s my friend, but he needs help. I know that.” He presses a finger to the sheet closest to him. “This is what I can do. Get you someplace better. Make sure my friend gets what he needs. Make sure he never does this again.”

Looking in his eyes, keeping your gazes locked, he doesn’t flinch or look away. He’s telling the truth. He wants to get you out, just like he said. You blink in shock.

“So if I sign these papers, it’s over?” you ask, hands finding their way to clutch together in your lap.

“It’s the only way I can see this getting better,” he replies with the same sincerity. He gathers everything up in a pile and hands it over.

A pen sits by your hand and you lift it. You scan the first document, but with the headache and sinus pressure, it’s all legal jargon you can’t decipher before it becomes blackish grey mush in your eyes. Your head starts to spin. Before you can think better, your signature and initials sit on their respective dotted lines.

The man breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says, clipping everything together. Gratitude saturates each word, too saccharine. “It’ll be so much better now. I promise, you’ll enjoy the attic much more than the basement.”

He keeps talking, but static fills your brain. The attic? Wasn’t he going to get you out? He said—he said…you can’t quite remember anymore. Your brain pounds behind your eyes. You clutch at your head.

The door swings open and Andy charges in, beelining for his friend and flipping through the packet of papers. A smile growing wider and wider on his lips.

“She signed everything?” he asks, voice excited in a way you don’t like.

“She did.” The older man pats your captor on the back. “Congratulations, you two. I’ll leave you to your honeymoon.”

“What?” you mumble. A nauseous weight sits heavy on your chest. You can’t breathe. All air sucked out of the room.

The older man comes over to you, crouching and catching your eye. “It’ll be better,” he repeats, patting your hand. “Just you wait. That marriage certificate was exactly what he needed. He’ll take much better care of his wife.” He stands and presses a kiss to your forehead. You wipe your face in shock while he shakes Andy’s hand. He walks away and turns back for one last wave before closing the door to your new hell.

#andy barber x reader #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fanfiction #dark #dark fic #kidnapping #tw kidnapping #yandere vibes #basement wife trope #attic wife trope #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 5 months

Text

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: Your handler comes home early to celebrate, and you can’t help but think of the day you first met.

Word Count: 5.4k

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark, Dubious Consent, Unreliable Narrator, Smut (Gun Play, Fingering, Vaginal Penetration, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk/Degradation, Exhibitionism), “Accidental” Groping, brief mention of Spanking, Murder/Dead Bodies, Manipulation, Kidnapping, Possessiveness, Shock Collars, Pet Names (lollipop, sucker, etc.). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Let’s give a warm welcome to Lloyd and his lollipop. Took me a moment on this one to find the motivation to write, but here we are! Happy First Sunday of Attic Wives Advent! ❄️🎉🍾🙌🏻

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three. Spinning around the room, your head dizzy with the motion, you travel. Skirt billowing, the swish of fabric against your thighs. Around, around, around. An endless dance inside the walls of your confinement. Soft music fills the air, strings and winds blending in a harmonic melody and filling your head as you glide.

The song ends and you pause. Halted by the sight of your handler in the door.

“Mr. Hansen,” you greet in surprise. “I thought you weren’t due for another few days.”

Stepping to the side, you find the calendar. No month or date, but days marked in little boxes. The one three days away circled to indicate his return. You point to it, as if it will provide its own explanation.

“And miss our anniversary?” Lloyd says with a hand over his heart. “Never. That pansy ass only took an hour to finish, a pop to his gullet and I was on my way home.” He mimes the shot with his fingers, pointed at your chest. “Now give me some sugar.”

You step forward and tilt your head, the perfect angle for him to slant his lips over yours and devour. You swoon against him. His mustache tickles, but it’s a sensation to which you’ve become accustomed—even enamored.

He hums against your lips and shoves his tongue past them. You meet each venture, each lick. Your fingers smooth over his sweater and shoulders until you reach the nape of his neck, scratching at the short hairs there. His knees buckle and he wraps his arms about you. He tastes sweet, like always. A little tart, like sour apple. One of your favorites. Probably rolled one of his lollipops around his mouth before arriving. He never eats the grape or cherry ones before he kisses you—knowing you hate that they taste of medicine.

“Mr. Hansen,” you gasp against his lips. The cool metal of his suppressor trailing over your body.

He chuckles and pulls back only to capture your shock in his gaze. His tongue swipes over his lips and his eyes burn with his hunger.

The gun lowers in its quest. Nudging between your thighs and pressing tight against you sex. Your fingers grip tight. Nails biting into his skin. Metal against your bare pussy.

Your eyes remain locked. His drinking in each minute expression that flits across your face. A smirk sits under his mustache. His hand rocking the gun against you. You lift on your toes. But his free hand cradles your nape, keeping you put.

A mocking concern furrows his brow. “You don’t like that, sucker baby?” he asks.

Your breath hitches and you whine. Why he has to look at you with that false pity and infantilizing voice, you don’t know. But you feel the rush of arousal it sends between your thighs.

“Sir,” you pout, “please.”

His face lifts in amusement and he keeps the motion of his hand, stimulating you with his gun.

“You know how much I love keeping you on my flavor saver,” he purrs with a predatory grin. “The thought of you on my gun?” He growls and rocks his hips forward, grinding his hard cock against you through his khakis. “Such a good, juicy girl for me.”

You whimper as the smooth metal of the suppressor’s tip catches on your clit. Your lips press together, hips canting toward the stimulation.

“More, please,” you request, your voice breathy and head tilting toward his.

He takes your invitation, kissing you again and stealing your breath. His free hand begins to wander, plucking at your nipples and smiling when you squeak in pain against his lips. But his hand travels further down, squeezing your ass and smoothing over your upper thigh.

A strange dull pain radiates from the exploration of his fingers. You blink in confusion and pull back a second. A glance down at his hand sees his finger buried in the fabric of your dress, the tender spot nearby. Your head tilts in curiosity, but you think nothing of it. Legs bumping into all sorts of things—an inexplicable tender spot or two never amiss.

But Lloyd stops. He grasps at your skirt and pulls it higher to expose the full extent of your thigh.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, voice dripping lust.

“Nothing,” you squeak. “It’s nothing.” You try to brush away his fingers or guide them somewhere more distracting.

But just like a dog with a bone—a very large bone—he doesn’t let you go that easy. His eyebrow quirks. His chin lifts just a little. And you’re spinning on your heel until he has your back pressed to his front.

“Now, sweet sucker,” he coos in your ear, “you wanna try that again?”

The smallest click reaches your ear. You know that sound. Have heard it far too often. The safety on his gun clicking off. Your heart spikes in panic. Yet he once again grinds it against your sex. Head fuzzy with a cocktail of panic and pleasure, you buck back toward him. He grins and presses a kiss to your cheek from behind.

“Tell me,” he grits with a tweak of your nipple. You gasp and reach for his hands. “Ah, ah,” he chides, keeping your grasp away from his gun, “don’t wanna do that, sweetheart. Don’t want an accident.”

You tip your head to catch his eye. He stares down at you, ever cool and cocky in a way that reminds you of the day you met.

“I—” You stop to lick your lips. His gun slides against you once more. Your eyes flutter closed.

“That’s right,” he purrs, “Tell me what’s happened to my candy girl.”

Another knock of the gun against your clit. Your lips press together, holding back a moan. You shake your head, hoping to clear it. “I must have bumped up against something while you were away,” you burst, trying to keep your thoughts straight with the delicious press of his firearm and cock clouding your mind. “It just twinged a little. But I’m fine.”

Lloyd hums, but you can’t see his face. Too focused on the starbursts on the backs of your eyelids. So close, so close to your climax.

“Baizen!” he barks from behind you. The tone of his voice enough to make anyone with a lick of sense freeze.

“Sir,” you ask, voice breathy and hitched as his free fingers join the barrel of the suppressor. “Why does he—” He pinches your clit, chuckling at your surprised squeak, before finding your entrance and plunging his fingers into your core. You moan, question instantly forgotten.

Your head tips back to rest against him. He presses another kiss to your skin. Tongue tracing toward your mouth and licking over your lips. He hums and you squirm with the bristly tickle of his mustache.

His fingers tease your entrance as you mewl and sway your hips, needing him to fill you. “You hear that?” he asks right by your ear. The squelch of your arousal embarrassingly loud compared to his whisper. Your lips press together and your head shakes. “God, you’re so sweet for me, sucker baby.” His teeth catch on your lobe, nibbling while his fingers sink into you once more.

Footsteps echo from outside your door. The heavy beat of their tactical boots, familiar from their patrols, approaching. Your stomach flip flops. Never once have you understood Lloyd’s need to display you. But you know better now than to fight it.

“You called, boss?” the man—Baizen, you assume—asks. He clears his throat but enters the room and stands at ease.

Lloyd’s fingers remain relentless—toying with you, keeping you on the brink, your head clouded with the ever growing need to cum. And he doesn’t respond, not for a minute. Letting the other man’s discomfort compound with your gasps and moans.

Half-distracted by you and continuing with your mind-altering torture, he states, “You let my girl get hurt.”

Baizen blinks. His brow furrows. He tries to catch your eye. But you know better.

“Of course n—”

With a final flick to your clit, the gun disappears. You only register the swift pew-pew of a double shot moments later when Baizen’s body hits the floor. Blood flows from the bullet wounds, two straight to the heart.

The safety clicks back on and Lloyd raises the gun. He examines your slick juices coating the metal and smiles. A gleam of satisfaction sparkles in his eyes before he drops the gun and wraps his arm around you, caging your body to his. His fingers curve within you and your knees crumple. Lloyd lowers you down, following you to the plush fibers of your fluffy rug. You whine when he pulls his fingers out of you, but he presses his lips to your throat in placation while his zipper snicks on its descent.

You sink your fingers into the sheepskin to prepare yourself and with little warning he plunges in. A wounded sound spills past your lips. Pain sparks at the sudden stretch but so does a exquisite thrill at having him inside you again.

Lloyd’s relentless. The moment he seats himself inside you to the hilt, he melts on top of you. A deep groan presses against your head before his hips snap back and he plunges into you again. Your pulse thrums and your fingers wring the fibers of your rug, mouth gaping as the sounds of your pleasure punch out of your chest. Each thrust another devastation to your sanity, losing yourself to the pleasure.

A deep guttural satisfaction hums from deep in his chest. Fingers grip tight at your hips. In response, they cant back, searching for more, grinding for stimulation.

“Just like that,” he breaths on a loud praise through his moans, “let me hear those slutty, slutty sounds, lollipop.” He grunts, fingers flexing at the flutter of your pussy around him. “God, I love you.”

You can’t respond, even though you’re supposed to—stroke his ego, sing his praises, shower him in affection in return. Your mind blank, save for thoughts of how he fills you. Stretches you to your limits with each clap of his hips against yours. No contemplation. Just bodies joining together in an exercise of rapture.

But he won’t accept that. That he forces all coherence from your head with his cock, words forgotten in his drive toward climax. His right hand releases your hip and without his support you collapse. Prone on the rug, he doesn’t waver but continues to bury himself in you as far as he can and wrest moans from your slack mouth. Your head tilts back, guided by his fingers gripping your throat.

“You’re so far gone,” he chuckles on labored breaths. “Look at you, so adorably pathetic.” He tuts and pauses, sheathed within you to grind his hips to yours. You release the rug and your hand flutters over his at your throat. His voice dips deep and deadly. “What do you say?” he prompts.

You mewl and blink, fighting back the heady fog of your lust. “I love you, too, Mr. Hansen,” you slur.

His head lowers, nose inhaling the smell of your hair, finding the hinge of your jaw. “Damn right.”

His hand releases your throat, letting you bury it back in the fluffy rug beneath you. Instead, as he resumes fucking you with abandon, it finds the apex of your thighs. Murmurs of delight leave him at the squelch of your arousal and his fingers grind against your clit which throbs for attention.

You cum with a keening cry, legs shaking with it and trying to squeeze shut. But Lloyd keeps you open, accessible for his use.

He grunts and his hips stutter. Relief wells up inside you, almost as orgasmic as your own climax. He cums, filling you to the brim. A weak moan spills past your lips, parched and thirsty.

With a pleased hum, he snuggles closer and pins you fully to the rug below. You both breathe heavy and his hum turns into a familiar melody. “Lollipop” by The Chordettes fills your ear. When you manage to turn your head to glimpse him over your shoulder, a cocky grin pulls at his lips.

That grin. The lock of his normally coiffured hair that falls into his eyes. Your mind flashes back to another moment—similar and very different and just as earth-shattering.

The bell dings. You glance at Naomi, flirting with a tall man, his back to you. You hesitate a moment before your feet find their way to the right spot without her. Under the dump bucket at the water park. Overhead you gaze up at the giant bucket—over 1,000 gallons of water ready to fall. Others join you, glancing at each other with glee. Your heart jumps with anticipation.

The bucket tips, the bell still sounding in your ear. Your eyes close. But you couldn’t have known to brace for the impact.

The force of the water buffeting you punches the air from your lungs. Feet faltering in their position, you start to slip on the wet floor. You can picture it. Your skull smacking against the pavement. Pain. Blood. Waterboarded by hundreds of gallons of water. Not a pretty picture.

Sudden strong hands grasp at you. One around your waist, the other accidentally gropes your chest. But they turn you away, shielding you from the rest of the deluge. A body presses against yours and keeps you tucked against them until the water runs out.

You breathe a moment, shocked by this stranger’s quick thinking and decisive action. Their hands release you and they step into your view.

“You okay?” he asks, a strand of wet hair flopping over his forehead. “Sorry about the uh—” His hand raises and flexes. Your cheeks heat and you clear your throat. “I just saw you falling and didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Thanks,” you mumble with a shy smile. “It’s silly, but I swear I saw my life flashing before my eyes.”

His lips quirk toward a smile beneath his mustache and your belly makes a nervous swoop. His dripping clothes cling to his frame. A low chuckle spills from him as he wrings water from his open Hawaiian shirt. You try your hardest not to stare at the white undershirt, transparent and outlining his muscles. Your teeth sink into your lower lip. You glance over your shoulder toward Naomi, now approaching with a smile on her face.

“Well, uh,” you mumble turning back with a shy tap of your toe, “how can I repay you for your…” But by the time you look back, the stranger has disappeared.

“Look at you,” Naomi says with a pinch of your shoulder. You flinch and look at her. “Soaking wet. Don’t you just love it?”

You shake your head with an uneasy chuckle. “Not exactly. Let’s go do that Tornado thing.” You herd her toward it, hoping to distract her from what just happened. But, still, you glance back hoping to catch a glimpse of the handsome man who saved you.

He doesn’t leave your head the rest of the day, even as you step out of the hotel shower that night and begin to dry yourself off with the fluffiest towel you’ve ever used. You hum to yourself and sigh, pushing thoughts of your mystery man aside for a moment. Naomi suggested a club nearby and you trudge to your luggage to pick an appropriate outfit. The club scene was never yours, but it is Naomi’s. You take a picture of yourself in the mirror and text her for approval. Seems only right since she’s treating you for this whole trip—the hotel, the food, the water park—all on her daddy’s card. It’s nice to be the heiress of a business empire.

A text comes back after a moment. Gorgeous! 😍

Your brow quirks at the response. Used to her responding selfies and abbreviated text speak, your thread full of them.

Everything alright? You ask.

A minute passes. Nothing. You sit at the foot of your bed, keycard passing through your fingers while you wait. She’s usually glued to her phone. Why it’s taking her an age to reply, you don’t know. You check the time, tap the card against your phone screen, take a glance around your room to make sure everything’s tucked away.

A knock bangs on the door. You jump, startled. That’s not like Naomi at all. You stand and fidget with the short hem of your dress.

Hesitant steps take you to the door and you look out the peephole. A man, tall with dark curly hair and glasses, stands outside your door. He looks one way down the hallway as if speaking to someone else.

He says your name in a forceful, clipped command. “Please open the door. For your own safety.”

You step back and turn toward your room. Panic spikes up your spine until you shiver with it. You step toward the bed, then the bathroom, then the window not knowing where to turn.

“I’m from the FBI, Agent Denny Carmichael. I must insist you let me in.”

Your fingers tremble as they tap Naomi’s number on your phone. It continues to ring and ring before going to voicemail. The agent stops talking. But you hear mumbling from just outside.

You drop you phone by your purse and approach the door again, trying to hear what he’s saying.

“Look,” he says, an edge of frustration to his tone, “Naomi Jackson has received death threats from foreign organizations. We’re working closely with the CIA to mitigate the threat, but she has been taken into protective custody for the time being. And, until this threat passes, you will need to be under our protection as well.”

You swallow hard. Stomach transforming into a pit of dread. You look toward the peephole, hands clenched with your apprehension.

A heavy sigh comes through the door. “Would you like to see my badge?” he asks.

Making sure the chain lock remains in place, your hand finds the doorknob. You twist and open it a fraction, standing behind the door to shield yourself.

Agent Carmichael’s hand slides his badge holder through the gap. You snatch it away and close the door. His hand slaps it with a bark of “Hey!”

You flinch from his shout but take a long look, verifying his name and his status as an FBI agent. It looks legitimate—at least to your eye.

With a final moment of hesitation, you unlatch and open the door. “I’m sorry,” you mumble. “I just—”

Agent Carmichael holds up a hand to silence you. “You were startled and scared. I understand, but we need to move. Now.”

He grasps you by the arm and guides you down the hallway, head swiveling back and forth. You can only guess he’s looking for threats. Would you really be in such danger?

Your feet can’t move as quickly as your escort wants, but you try to keep up. It’s a whirlwind of back exits from the hotel, avoiding staff, and being shoved into the back seat of some sort of black sedan. Agent Carmichael explains nothing else, even when you notice a woman sitting in the passenger seat beside him. He simply starts the car and begins to drive.

“Uh, hi, hello,” you mumble to greet the woman.

She gives no response. Almost as if pretending you weren’t there at all. She turns to the other agent. “I can’t believe he changed his price.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Agent Carmichael replies in low tones with a peek over his shoulder at you. Your eyes glue themselves to the tinted window, pretending not to listen. “He’s not likely to do it again.” With another glance to capture your attention, he says, “Just a few more minutes until we hand you over to your handler at the airstrip. He’ll take over your protective custody from there.”

“Alright, thank you.” You sink lower into your seat and play with the hem of your dress.

The airstrip is desolate save for one small plane, another black sedan, and a man standing beside it. From the backlighting you can only make out the shape of his broad shoulders and large stature. He leans against the car, almost at ease. Though it doesn’t calm your buzzing adrenaline and anxiety, the display of nonchalant confidence reassures you just a little.

Your escort car pulls to a stop a few feet from his. Agent Carmichael opens the door behind the driver’s seat and grabs your bicep once again as he takes you closer to the man.

One glimpse of the mustache and slicked back hair and your mouth gapes on a gasp of recognition. Without thought, your hand raises to point at the man and you blurt, “You!”

“Hey lollipop,” he greets with a cocky strut toward you. He produces the small candy from his pocket and offers it. You take the lollipop by its stick and hold it close. “Looks like I’m gonna be taking care of you.”

“Hello again,” you say, feeling more at ease with a familiar face—especially one who had been so helpful earlier that day.

Agent Carmichael clears his throat and steps forward, placing you behind his shoulder. “Have you delivered the asset to the live drop?”

The man scoffs and pushes the agent away with a sweep of his hand. “Of course I have. I’m not some candy-ass rookie—I get the job fucking done. Now, are we?” His arm wraps around your waist, guiding you gently to his side.

“Yes.” Agent Carmichael spins on his heel and returns to his car. He drives away, his partner in the passenger seat glaring out the windshield as it turns.

You look up at your assigned protector, his eyes locked on the retreating car until it’s out of sight. Only then does he look to you and smile. Your lips press together to suppress the shy smile ready to break through.

“The name’s Lloyd Hansen,” he introduces himself. He offers his hand and you give it a quick shake. “Let’s get going.” Lloyd directs you to the plane and you start walking toward its stairs. “By the way, before you start wondering, your luggage and personal effects should be shipped to our safe house. Just takes a while to make sure our tracks are covered.”

You pause on your climb up the plane’s stairs, turning to him on the step below you. “Thank you, Mr. Hansen.” Your heart starts to calm. Your handler has everything in hand. Everything will be fine.

Which wasn’t exactly true. Though, it had taken you about two weeks to realize just how wrong you were.

The first hint was the mansion. The huge structure and sprawling grounds supposedly your safe house—not very inconspicuous. The second was the large staff. All ready and willing to help with any little thing, and already set in a routine. He explained it away at the time with a vague story about the seized assets of a drug lord. But then your luggage arrived without your cellphone or tablet. And Mr. Hansen insisted on you staying in the renovated attic—a gorgeous space full of light and luxury, but quite restrictive and remote in the long-run. Hints number three and four.

When he stopped answering your questions about the FBI and Naomi’s case, and started to find too many reasons to put his hands on your body, the penny finally dropped.

The first time you tried to run away, he spanked you so hard you couldn’t sit for a week. He threatened worse the next time. That was also the first night he slept in your bed. You woke up to his hard on pressed between the cheeks of your ass and his hands cupping your tits. To your utter confusion at the time, he didn’t do anything else. Just walked uncomfortably from the room and left you to your own devices until that night’s dinner. That was when he spilled—cocky smirk twisted on his lips.

That foreign threat to Naomi? He was hired by the CIA, specifically Agent Carmichael, to deliver her directly to them. How lucky for you that you’d caught his eye during his surveillance and he’d decided to change his deal. The heiress in exchange for her friend. That was hard to swallow. Thoughts of what had become of Naomi filling your head until it felt like you’d pop.

The second time you tried to sneak away, it’d taken months to understand the guard’s schedule. To count the minutes in your head until their rotations. Then to find out how the household staff worked. Which maids cleaned the floors below and when. The cooks, the housekeeper, the head of security. Mr. Hansen’s travel routines. And the technology everywhere. It was impossible. But you almost got away. Just a few feet from the top of the back wall before they caught you.

When Lloyd had returned, he introduced you to the collar—the electric collar. Locked now around your throat and a very persuasive tool to keep you in your attic.

How long ago was that? Months, at least. You weren’t the best at keeping track of time. Though Lloyd helped with his penchant for celebrating anniversaries—if he could be trusted. Still, the days tended to blur together.

All you know is the fight left you a while ago. Resistance doesn’t deter him and it’s so much better when you just enjoy it. He’s not mean without reason, and he is what he initially proclaimed himself. Your protector.

Lloyd stands with a groan and you jolt at the feel of him slipping out of you. He hums with pained pleasure.

Your fingers run through the fibers of your rug, turning on your back and staring at the ceiling. Head tilting to the side, you listen to Lloyd putter around your room. He picks up your perfume bottles, catching your ear with the clink of sitting them back in their tray. You look to see what exactly he’s doing. He leans against your vanity, pants pulled back up but fly undone.

He smirks as he looks down at you. “That’s what I like to see.”

Heavy steps approach from the hall and a knock sounds at the door. Lloyd pops up.

“There they are.”

You follow him with your eye. Siting up more fully to watch him kick the body out of the way of the man and dog standing in the doorway. Your head tilts in confusion, but you know to say nothing. Just straighten you skirt, hold back the grimace at his cum starting to drip out of you, and wait for his explanation.

Lloyd takes the leash with a nod to the man. “Take care of this shitbag, will you?” He prods Baizen’s body once more with his toe before turning back to you.

With a proud smirk, he leads the dog over—maybe a giant schnauzer judging by its little beard and large size. It’s then you notice the sparkly yellow ribbon around the dog’s neck. You wait, looking up to the man who once proclaimed to be your handler. He’s sure to give you some sort of cue.

“Happy Anniversary, lollipop!”

You blink. “Happy Anniversary, sir,” you return.

He crouches down and smacks a sloppy kiss to your lips. “What d’you think of your present?”

“Present?”

The dog steps forward and sits right in front of you. Lloyd gestures to him and hands over the leash. You take it, trying to piece together the bits of the puzzle—at what exactly he’s doing.

“He’s yours,” Lloyd explains. “Been raising him since he was a puppy to be the perfect guard dog for you. He’s smart and strong. He’ll be perfect for when I’m not here to keep you company.”

“So,” you wonder, reaching out a tentative hand to pet the dog before you, “he’s mine?”

The dog dips his head and sniffs before rushing forward and nearly tackling you to the ground. You push him back and situate yourself better. He finds a comfortable spot sitting in your lap, though he’s far too big to be a lapdog.

Lloyd chuckles. “Yup. He better be. Been scent training him to make sure he knows you. Even if he’s only just met you.” His head tilts and he stands back up. “You wanna know his name?”

You nod, running your hands through the black fur along the dog’s back. You snuggle into him without realizing, but he just sits for you, seemingly content with your embrace.

“Shadow,” Lloyd commands, “perimeter.”

Immediately, the dog steps away from you and begins patrolling around the walls of your room, sniffing along each. Looking for something—probably a threat.

“He looks like a shadow,” you say with a glance to the man standing above you.

“Huh,” Lloyd says with a cock of his head, “I suppose he does.”

Shadow finishes his circuit and returns to you, his shoulder pressed to your side.

“At ease,” Lloyd says.

Your dog relaxes into you and searches for your hand to begin petting him again. You’re happy to oblige. Your lips purse, holding back hope with your new companion by your side. Though, from your keeper, you can’t hide anything.

He tips your chin up to meet his eye with two fingers and asks, “What’s on your mind, sucker baby?”

“Will I get to take care of him?”

“Well,” Lloyd hems, “you won’t have to bathe him or clip his nails. We’ve got someone to groom him—”

“Will I get to take him on walks?” you ask before you can stop the interruption—almost regretting it.

Lloyd clicks his tongue and bends to tap his hand against your cheek. Almost a slap. “You thinking about leaving me?”

Your head shakes vehemently at the glint in his eye. Too close to displeasure.

“Of course not, Mr. Hansen,” you assure, standing up and clutching at his shirt, pressing as close as possible in an effort to wipe away any of his misplaced suspicion.

He hums and runs his hands along your sides. Smoothing them up and to your neck, he taps on the collar. You swallow hard.

“Your perimeter has been expanded,” he says, wrapping his hand around the side of your throat and drawing you closer. “You can go all the way out to the balcony and watch him in the garden. Isn’t that nice?”

You breathe steady. Though your heart sinks and you can hardly stomach the disappointment, the slightest expansion is something—less than what’s allowed a dog, but something.

“I can go outside?” you ask, quiet and hesitant. Fearing that somehow he might think better of it.

Lloyd keeps you close as he guides you toward the balcony door. Tall French doors opening onto a sun-soaked expanse of space.

“Go on,” he prods.

Your first steps with bare feet on the tile, you cannot believe you’re allowed this. A breeze brushes your cheek. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. The blue sky widens overhead, spotted with fluffy white clouds. You breathe in the fresh air and your heart lifts and keeps rising. It’s a gorgeous day.

Lloyd says something behind you, but you pay it no heed. Too caught up in the taste of freedom. Thoughts of a star-speckled sky spur plans of sleeping outdoors. Feeling the rain again, the chance to crunch through snow. Part of you doesn’t understand the bubbling joy welling within you at such an insignificant delusion of freedom. You never dwell in those thoughts, afraid of what they might spark.

Your hands grip the hard stone railing, leaning to look down at the lush gardens below. Shadow races out the downstairs door and runs around the corner. You watch him until he’s out of sight.

Steps approach from behind. You glance over you shoulder and meet Lloyd’s eye. The gratitude of your gaze meets the hunger of his.

He steps closer and bends you over the rail, his hips pressing his hard cock against your ass. His hands cover yours on the stone and he runs his nose along your throat until he reaches your ear.

“Happy Two Year Anniversary, my sticky sweet girl,” he husks, the grit of arousal dripping from his words. He sinks down to his knees and flips up your skirt. With a dip of his head, he latches onto your cunt. You jolt, but can’t move away. All you can do is moan and let your body become his again.

#lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen fanfiction #dark #dark fic #kidnapping #tw kidnapping #yandere vibes #dub con #tw dub con #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 17 days

Text

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: You’re getting over your illness, but, then, there’s still Andy.

Word Count: 2,034

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark, Dub Con (Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex), Manhandling, Slapping, Biting, Scratching, mild Blood, implied Kidnapping, Basement Wife Trope, Possessiveness, Illness (recovery), Swearing/Cursing, Pet Names (honey, sweetheart, etc.). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: This has been sitting in my drafts for far too long. Hope ya’ll enjoy!

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is unBeta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

“Your lymph nodes certainly seem to be doing better,” the doctor says, fingers gently prodding the sides of your neck. They retreat and he grabs a pen light from his pocket. “Let me see that throat, open wide, tongue out.”

You comply with the directions, letting him examine you. Rage filling your head as your eye catches the man standing in the corner with his arms crossed, keenly observant.

“Your fever’s gone down, too?”

“Yes,” you reply, “I’ve been a lot better the last few days.”

The doctor smiles and presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “That’s good, very good.” After tucking away his light, he leans back in his chair to take a long look at the rest of you. “When’s the last time you had a pelvic exam?”

“Oh.” Mildly stunned by the question, you can’t remember. Thinking hard, you begin to count back the weeks as best you can—captivity not entirely conducive with nailing down timelines.

“Don’t even think about it, Rogers.”

Andy steps out of the corner and puffs himself up in a challenge. Your eyes roll. Dr. Rogers stands, though, with his hands held up in surrender.

“I’m just concerned about your wife’s health.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Andy bites back.

The doctor packs his few things back into his bag and stands. “Whatever you say, Barber.” A smirk plucks at his lips. “But she will need to be checked eventually.”

Andy gestures toward the door, following the doctor out. You sneak toward the door, waiting until it closes to press your cheek against it. Beep, click, click, click. Just like all the other times.

You roll your neck back and wander around your room until you find your couch once again. Flopping back, you stare at the ceiling, raising your hand to look at the diamond ring sparkling on your finger. 3 carats, and brilliant.

The door opens and closes once again, signaling Andy’s return to the room. You don’t acknowledge him. Consumed by thoughts as your ring glints down at you.

His footsteps approach and his hand weaves with yours. You snarl.

“Dr. Rogers said he’s pleased with your improvement,” he says while placing a kiss to the back of your hand. You hum. Fingers bend and flex, trying to wriggle away from his grip. “He’ll keep asking about the pelvic exam, though.”

“It’s important,” you reply.

“That’s true.” Andy releases your hand only to cup your cheeks. “But Dr. Rogers has some particular tastes when it comes to his patients.” He smiles down at you. Your eye catches the silver of the ring on his left hand. “I’m glad I could spare you from that.”

With little thought, you snap at the hand cradling your face. He doesn’t flinch. Letting your teeth sink into the meat of his thumb.

He hisses and drops to his knees. Breathing heavy and watching you. Your nostrils flare with renewed rage—his delusions curtailing your petty acts of vengeance. It grits against your gnarled insides. Needing to cause pain, to punish him.

Your teeth release his flesh, indented marks throbbing red on his skin. Not enough pressure to break it—this time.

“God, honey,” Andy sighs. “You’re so strong.” From his position on his knees, he lifts so he might level your gazes and slant his lips to yours.

His greedy kiss consumes you. You both fight. His bid for dominance easily bowing to your fury despite his urgent hunger. You nip at his lip until you taste blood and raise your hand to collar his throat. You shove him away with both your hand and your knee, placed against his chest to keep him at bay.

He retreats but keeps his eyes on you. You stare back, wondering how you’ve got to this point. When before he seemed so eager to control you. To sit before you, now, more eager for your disdain, simply because a ring sits on your finger.

Your hand darts out to grasp at his fluffy hair, tilting his head to the side at an uncomfortable angle.

“You’re only like this now because I’m your wife, aren’t you?”

He shudders at the question. Two words in particular. His eyes shine up at you, enamored.

“And all before you were ready to push me around, treat me like I was scum beneath your foot.” You click your teeth and toss him away from you.

He rocks back on his legs but doesn’t fall. “You wouldn’t have me before.” His eyes stay dropped to the floor. “I had to make you see that it would be better to marry me.”

“By taking advantage of my weakened state and your strength, by threatening me,” you spit.

“I’ve been better now,” he counters, “since you signed our marriage certificate and it’s been made official. I’ve been better, haven’t I?”

His chest heaves with deep breaths. The glint of desire in his eye still shines bright. He restrains himself as you think. The first few buttons of his shirt hang undone, showing a peek of his white undershirt.

“But you still won’t let me out of here,” you accuse.

“No.”

Watching him watch you, wait for you, you think it might not be so bad. To have the plentiful opportunities to grind him down. Until he’s just like the husk you became down in that basement. Until he begs for your mercy. You sneer and cross your legs.

“Fuck you,” you bite. “You stole me from my life on a whim.” You scoff and roll your eyes. “You don’t even care about me, just the idea you have of your perfect wife.”

“You’re my perfect wife.”

The slap rings loud in the quiet room. Both of you shocked by the impact of your hand against his cheek.

Andy blinks, eyes blowing out with lust. You swallow down trepidation but keep the steely look of contempt on your face. You stand, towering over him.

“You’re pathetic,” you say, every ounce of disdain and disgust lacing the words.

A dark look, born of frustration rather than lust, washes over his features. He meets your eye with a scowl.

“No, I’m not.”

You scoff and turn away from him. Walking toward your bathroom, just to put a door between you and the electric current of hatred that tickles at your core. You’ve had enough.

Your hand falls to the doorknob, turning it to unlatch the bathroom door, but hands land on you first. Spinning you and pinning your body to the wood.

“Don’t walk away from me,” he demands, but through his bark, you see his desperation. Your eyes cleared from their fear to see the pitiful man to whom you’re legally bound. The challenge he sets stirring something more than hatred in you.

“Fuck yo—”

He cuts you off with a kiss, hands grasping at the side of your head to keep you in place. You grab at the front of his shirt, clawing across his chest. Buttons pop open. More of his undershirt revealed. Your fingers bunch and tear at the fabric. A fight between you two. You grunt against his mouth, your kiss all teeth and tongue. Sloppy and frantic and combative.

He trails his lips down your neck, lowering to his knees. Your hands sink into his hair, hoping to keep him from his goal. But once set on it, he won’t be deterred. He lunges for your thighs, slotting his shoulders between them and forcing you into a lean.

He rips at your clothes, not in anger but passion. One moment too long to keep him from you.

Standing bare from the waist down, you continue to push him away. Lifting your knee to knock him aside, but he simply clings to it. Under his strength, you’re pinned to the door and open before him to sup.

“Andy,” you protest, hands pushing at his forehead, “jeez, just stop it.”

His tongue swipes through your folds. Your breath hitches and he hears it, the vibrations of his chuckle rolling against you. He peeks up from between your thighs.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says, not sorry at all, “I can’t help it.” Another swipe and flick to your clit. His fingers pet your folds, parting them for easier access to the most sensitive parts of you. “Let me make you feel good.”

You can’t surrender now, not when he wants it. Even when he does that thing with his tongue that makes your toes curl and his beard scratches just right on your upper thighs. You grit your teeth. No, no way can you let him know how he affects you. His fingers and tongue work in tandem to bring you over the edge, your legs trembling under your weight and threatening to collapse. Your nails bite into his scalp. He flinches with the pain, but continues his pursuit again and again.

His body and the door are all that keep you standing. Your legs jelly from the endorphin rush of multiple orgasms, flesh tender and overstimulated. Though, that does not mean your so-called husband is done with you.

He tugs and pushes you to your bed, messing your sheets with the flop of your body. Rushing with the aftershocks of your high and boneless upon the sheets.

While you languish in your sweat and the stickiness between your thighs, he strips. His button down and undershirt revealing the sculpted planes of his flesh. Kept up by a daily routine at the pool, his skin always smelling faintly of chlorine when he sees you in the evenings. Then his trousers. Pushed from his legs with his boxers to let his cock bob hard and leaking in the open air.

Your lungs fill with air. Casting your gaze aside, refusing to give his delectable body one more moment of admiration. He knows how good he looks. You won’t pay him the compliment.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he says, gathering you in his arms and positioning himself over you. Face to face.

You huff a frustrated breath, but can’t find the strength to fight back. Not when you know how well his cock stretches you and makes you cum. It’s a perk you’ll be sore to miss once you get away from him.

His cock slides in, too easily if anyone asked you. Then again, he made it his mission to have you cum on his tongue until you were dripping. You can’t entirely be blamed.

The thrust of his hips fills you, a steady pace not too frantic or lazy. Just right to drag you to the edge of another climax. He moans in your ear, fingers digging into your hip and the bed’s duvet.

Your muscles tense, waiting for that moment of release. Building and building inside you. Your nails sink into the skin of his back, scratching down. His hips jerk out of rhythm and he pants, stalling for a moment.

“You can’t just do that to me, honey.” His eyes catch yours, adoration shining at you. “You gotta warn me if you wanna leave your mark. You know how much I love it.”

You growl and glare, but he remains unfazed by it. He leans in to kiss you, a sweet peck accompanied by a dirty grind of his hips. You bite in response. Tasting blood on your tongue. His lip split beneath your teeth.

He moans and bucks against you. Thrusting with need. You bite your own lip to stifle the moans of pleasure clawing up your throat. You break, shatter, keening a cry ripped from your chest. He cums a moment later with a shout and pulls out, splattering the folds of your sex with his spend.

Your chests heave with your deep breaths, lungs expanding. Andy falls away from you and onto his back. Hand reaching up to comb through his hair. He licks his lip with a smirk.

“You like marking me up, don’t you?” You don’t reply. Feigning the inability to form words. But, really, unsure whether the pleasure of punishing him mutates in the brief moments of bliss into something primal, claiming. It’s in these quiet moments of terror and receding pleasure where you wonder and dread.

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foxgloveprincess · 4 months

Text

Pairing: Jake Jensen x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: Love has finally found you.

Word Count: 1,837

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark, Kidnapping, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Kidnapping, implied Cyberstalking, Relationships, slightly Confined Spaces, Pet Names (angel, baby, etc.). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Jake is finally ready for his angel. I hope you enjoy! Happy Fourth and Final Sunday of Attic Wives Advent! ❄️🎉🍾🙌🏻

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

You hated the bright flashes of the cameras on the whatever-the-latest-color carpet your agent made you walk down. Feeling like an animal in a cage. Smiling until your cheeks hurt and not able to let it drop for one brief moment of reprieve.

“We’re almost to the end,” Mickey whispers in your ear.

A genuine smile threatens to eclipse your perfectly composed one. You lean closer and whisper back a quiet, “Promise?”

He chuckles and plays up your embrace for the cameras. With a hum, he kisses your cheek, letting his face linger there for a nice intimate shot. Your heart flutters in you chest. The photographers eat it up with a cry of both your names.

“I promise, babe,” he replies with one last tender peck.

You give an affectionate squeeze around his waist and turn back to the carpet. A couple steps, a hundred photos. Another carefully placed spot, a few hundred more snapped. On and on until you get to the interviews. With reluctance, you let your agent separate you from Mickey’s side and turn to the cheery reporter in front of you.

“Cara Lonquist with Entertainment Avenue,” she introduces herself.

You smile and step forward, locking your fingers together to keep from fidgeting. Despite never quite acclimating to such keen attention, a deep breath prepares you for her questions.

Most fish for spoilers from the movie or upcoming projects. You answer each with the coy script you’ve practiced with the P.R. team. Then she asks, “Did I see you walking the carpet with someone?”

You blink a moment, caught off-guard by the pivot in conversation. Of course, you expected it, prepared for it. You duck your chin and press a hand to your heating cheek. “You did.”

The reporter coos and steps closer, chomping at the bit for the scoop you’re about to drop in her lap.

“Let’s just say,” you pause a minute to think, coquettish in your performed divulgence. “There’s a very special man in my life, and leave it at that.”

“A special man?” a voice teases from behind. Arms wrap about your waist and Mickey presses up behind you. The tension in your shoulders eases and you lean into his embrace. “Don’t make me jealous.”

The reporter makes a sound high in her throat and keeps the microphone shoved in your faces. Her eyes glance to her cameraman, and he returns a not so subtle thumbs up. You swallow a giggle and turn back to your beau.

“Oh yeah,” you tease in return, twisting away from the camera, “he’s everything to me.” But looking into Mickey’s cool blue eyes, you melt. It feels good to finally go public with the romance that’s bloomed between the two of you. Never have you been so happy.

Nor has a man thousands of miles away, his gaze locked on the screen, knowing you’re talking about him.

You awaken slowly, head groggy and body sore all over. Scratching an itch on your chest, your fingers meet lace. You look down to see an unfamiliar set of frilly white lingerie—something you’d never wear on your best day. The cropped camisole provides little support for your bust. Scalloped lace trims the edges, from the low-cut neckline to the fluttery straps. The bottom bloomers bear the same lace around the high waist and each leg hole. Both pieces just sheer enough that you’re exposed.

You smooth your hands over the soft cotton and sit up fully to examine the rest of your body. It’s more than just aches. A cast wraps around your right leg up to your knee. A brace sits on your left wrist. You grimace and try to roll the joint. It twinges with pain. A yelp escapes your lips and you cradle your hand to your chest. At least you’re all in one piece—wherever you are.

Looking around at the room you occupy, you see nothing familiar. A sloped roof with a delicate chandelier shining soft light across the small space. The bed you occupy crammed into a small nook. Lace and frills and faux fur cover each pillow around you. A delicate canopy drapes from overhead, tied off to the side with pristine white bows. Gossamer fabric hanging off to the side on a curtain rod barely conceals a toilet, tub, and sink. A scattered lamp or two, dim in their light. There’s very little else to the space. No windows. No doors.

“Where am I?” you whisper to no one in particular.

“I can answer that,” a voice booms over speakers you can’t see.

A flabbergasted, “What?” whooshes out of you on a breath.

“Are you comfortable?” the voice asks. It’s masculine, concerned, even tender in its delivery. Though the volume may be high, the voice isn’t coarse or agitated.

Your head shakes, rattling around all the thoughts that puzzle over your predicament.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, an urgency to his tone. The lights brighten from their dimmed setting. You raise a hand to shield your slowly adjusting eyes. But you say nothing. “It’s okay, angel, you can tell me.”

“Where am I?” you repeat looking for the camera he’s sure to have trained on you. “What’s going on?” Your voice threatens to shake as your situation settles around you and awareness blooms. This is not a joke, this is not a prank. You keep your cool as best you can, taking your cue from scripts and episodes of crime dramas. Struggling and screaming never did those girls any good. Smarts did.

“You’re home, baby,” he says. You swallow hard at the joy that exudes from those three words. Even in the silence that follows, you can hear the buzz of his anticipation.

“But where is home?” you ask, forcing out the words that stick in your throat.

“Oh, uh,” he pauses. Tapping and mumbles follow. Like somehow he’s nervous. “I, uh, don’t think I should tell you that.”

You dip your head in disappointment. He seemed friendly enough. He might slip up or give you a window of opportunity or be malleable enough for you to coax your way to safety.

You think hard for the next question before asking, “Do I get to know your name?”

“I guess we never got formally introduced,” he responds. More confusion adds to the pile—what does he mean by that? Had you met this man before? “My name’s Jake.”

“Jake,” you repeat with a tremble to the word. You clear your throat and let yourself pretend you’re on a set. Summoning your skills for your survival. “I’m glad to meet you again, Jake.” You let a small, wobbly smile stretch your lips as you look toward the general direction of one of the speakers—you hope.

The lights brighten with a flash before dimming to their previous mood lighting. All too familiar, reminding you of the paparazzi.

“I knew it,” he crows with joy. “I knew you’d remember me. It was so brief on the street, but we connected. You felt it too, didn’t you?”

Your mind races. He’d bumped into you. On what street? When? How many others had done the same—too many. How were you supposed to remember him out of all of them?

But you say, “Of course.” Though your voice quivers and your whole mouth dries, you lick your lips and continue with trepidation fluttering in your stomach. “You seemed…sweet?”

“Sweet?”

Your heart jumps at his tone, unable to decipher his reception of the term without a look at his face. But a dreamy sigh drifts through the speakers.

“That’s exactly what you said before. God, you really are an angel.”

You chuckle, an uneasy laugh meant to sound like a girlish giggle. At least his delusion seems to blind him to the discomfort slipping through the cracks. You glance around the room, a sinking feeling in your gut.

“Am I going to stay here?” you ask.

“Of course,” Jake replies, chirpy and affectionate. “You know how it’s been. Keeping this to ourselves for so long, being apart.” He sighs again and you hear a faint scratching through the speaker. “I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve been lonely.” He pauses and part of you almost feels sorry for him—almost. When he speaks again, though, that fleeting sympathy vanishes. “But now you’re really mine and I don’t have to share.”

“Share?” you wonder out loud. The implication doesn’t evade you, and your mind jumps to escape, the outside world, your commitments. “I’ve signed some contracts for upcoming films. They’ll expect me to show up on set. Or what about my agent? My family?” Your fingers fidget with the blanket draped over your waist. “Where do they think I am? They must be missing me by now. I had a meeting with public relations.…” you trail off, dread filling you up to the brim. “What about Mickey? God, he must be so worried.”

“Oh,” he voices with a strange lilt of sympathy. “Well, you see, the thing is…”

A television screen turns on in the corner. You didn’t notice that before in your brief perusal of the space. Your eyes squint at the bright light and watch. News coverage of an accident plays. A mangled car—a black SUV—flames on the side of a hill. Firefighters work to put out the fire with EMTs quickly packing up their equipment and speeding off. Your head tilts. What about it? Then your ears focus on the reporter’s statement.

“…actor most known for her role in Sanctified. No statement has been issued by the first responders as to her condition, but witnesses speculate that it may be dire. One witness even asserted that all he saw were charred remains when she was pulled from the wreckage…”

“That was almost two days ago,” Jake says, speaking over the story. “I recorded it for you to see.”

You blink. Images of a blaring horn and shattered glass. But no fire. You remember the driver, a younger man with a bright smile and overflowing enthusiasm—was his name Justin? He’d been pressed against the wheel and pinned in place. His voice echoes in your ear—the timbre and insistence—but you can’t remember exactly what he said.

“They announced your death yesterday on the 6 o’clock news,” he continues to explain with pride. “I think we did pretty good, and now no one will wonder where you are.”

“We?” you ask, still struggling to get through your shock.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I have a friend that helped out. It was his idea—the way it went down.” You drag a shuddering breath into your lungs. “Do you like how we did it?” There’s those nerves again. His voice tentative.

You swallow down bile and blink a few times in an attempt to clear your head. “Yes,” you reply. “It was very creative.” You clear your throat and breathe deep. “And now I’m all yours.” It whooshes out of you like defeat.

“All mine,” he echoes in delight.

#jake jensen x reader #jake jensen fanfiction #jake jensen fanfic #dark #dark fic #kidnapping #tw kidnapping #yandere vibes #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 9 months

Text

Summary: When problems arise, the group always works together.

Word Count: 1,597

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark, Lots of Implied References to Dark Themes/Actions, Kidnapping, Death/Murder, Stalking/Surveillance, Possessiveness, Banter, Cursing, Callous Regard for Life. Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: I’m loving tying these chapters in to connect the other stories in this universe. Next stories I’ll be working on are Lloyd’s introduction and a second chapter for Andy and maybe Jake. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think!

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

“Fuck!” Andy storms into the meeting hall, carding his fingers through his hair. “Fuck.” He slumps into the seat set up for him and runs his hand over his face. “She’s sick.”

“Your happy little housewife?” Lloyd asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Color me surprised.”

“Have you contacted the doctor yet?” Ari asks, cutting a sharp look toward the mercenary before returning his attention to the Andy.

“He can’t see her til Saturday,” he sniffs, standing up to pace back and forth outside the circle. His hand covers his mouth as he does, attempting to hide his worry, his weakness.

“Your girl isn’t going to die from a couple days in bed,” Robert snarks with a roll of his eyes.

Andy drops his hand and glares at the blasé remark. “Watch your mouth.”

Lloyd snaps a few times, drawing attention, excitement shining in his eyes. “Now’s your chance,” he enthuses with a smile and tilt of his brow. “The perfect time to move your girl outta that shitty basement and up into the cozy attic.” He gestures with his hands and shakes his head with mirth. “She’s weak and vulnerable right now. You show her you’re not a complete bastard and just want to take care of her—I’m telling you, it’ll be perfect.”

“I already offered to take her up there,” Andy growls, and resumes pacing. “She spat in my face.”

Lloyd snorts, waving through the air as he says, “Wait, wait, wait. You gave her a choice?”

“Of course I gave her a choice,” Andy snaps back. His voice drops, under his breath he sneers, “I’m not a monster.”

Lloyd cackles and clutches at his chest. “That’s exactly what you are, goody two-shoes.”

Robert grunts in agreement. Ari remains silent but fold his arms across his chest and cooly meets the attorney’s eye.

“Roll with it,” Robert advises, “the sooner you accept that you’re no longer squeaky clean, the more you can shape your life into what you want.”

The doors opposite each other in the meeting room both burst open. Jake enters one, Ransom the other—both hurried and bordering on frantic.

“Guys, I need help,” Jake says as Ransom blurts, “I’m in deep shit.”

The rest of the group turn toward one or the other, confused by their behavior. Andy’s hands raise in a gesture of affronted incredulity. Ari’s raise to silence them all.

“Wait a minute, one at a time,” the older man bids. The two exchange a terse glance before nodding toward the de facto leader of the group. “What’s wrong?” he asks with a wave toward Jake’s direction.

The young man’s hands fidget, fingers flexing and arms crossing. “It’s her agent,” he replies, a sharp bite in his tone, “she needs to stay the fuck away from my angel.”

“What?” Robert asks, a lecherous glint in his eye, “she making a move?”

Jake’s head shakes, brow furrowed in his displeasure. “She’s trying to push her into a PR relationship.” He pauses and faces the group, vulnerable before them and desperation bright behind his glasses. “I haven’t been able to find it in the emails yet, but I know it’s there. My baby would never do this to me.” He meets the eye of every other member of the group, pleading without words. “I gotta get her away from that.”

Lloyd’s brow quirks. Ari’s furrows in thought. Andy pulls out his chair to take a begrudging seat. Ransom continues to stand—waiting for attention to return to his dilemma.

“Is that right?” Lloyd asks, resting his fingers over his lips and breathing deeply. His lips quirk at scent lingering at the tips. Though his tone remains dubious, he leans forward in interest. “Seems your only choice is to grab her. You ready?”

“I am,” Jake agrees with a quick nod. “But even if I weren’t, I couldn’t leave her like that.”

Lloyd’s hand falls away to reveal a smirk before he glances to the other two experienced members of the group. Ari nods. Robert shrugs. At the exchange, Ransom rolls his eyes, his foot beginning to tap in impatience.

“It’ll be tricky for you with her celebrity,” Ari intones, still thoughtful as he leans back and crosses his arms. “Too many people might notice her disappearance.” His head tilts toward the mercenary in the group. “You think you could figure it out?”

Lloyd’s shoulders lift in an enthusiastic shrug. “If I call in a favor or two. Could play it off like how I got my sweet li’l girl,” he muses with excitement. “Or you wanna handle this Freezy?”

“Fuck that,” the man in question grunts, voice gritty with annoyance. He pulls out a cigarette and rests it on his bottom lip while searching his pockets. “You deal with that shit.” The click of the lighter concludes his refusal with a beat of finality.

“Oooh,” Lloyd drawls, hands rubbing together. His eye gleam and mischief radiates from his every pore. “This is gonna be fun.” He leans back, brandishing his phone and begins tapping happily on the screen. The light of it highlights his features and his macabre glee at his task.

Jake takes the empty seat beside him and observes over his shoulder. A point and mutter of suggestion exchanged between the two as they work together. All thought of the group forgotten.

“Now,” Robert says with a snap of his fingers toward Ransom’s looming figure, “can we make this quick? My princess got hit by the crimson tide and I need to get in there. The fuck is up with you?”

Ransom startles out of his thoughts, stepping forward and gripping the back of his chair. “I found her,” he snarls—his ire either directed at the hitman’s testy temperament or his own predicament without clear target.

“You did?” Ari asks without an attempt at concealing his skepticism.

“Yeah, I did,” Ransom replies with insulted emphasis.

Lloyd’s head pops up from his phone, curiosity sparkling despite Jake’s perturbation at the pause. “What number was she on your list?”

Ransom’s fingers squeeze the plastic of the chair. It creaks under his grip and the legs flex dangerously. His head dips and he mumbles. No one catches a word.

Andy leans forward, trying to decipher the man’s quiet response without success and asks, “What was that?”

Ransom looks up with a fierce glare. His jaw ticks as he grits out, “She wasn’t on my list.”

No one makes a comment until Lloyd crows with laughter. He grips his peck and doubles over, too pleased by the revelation. Robert smirks and pushes his glasses up his nose. Ransom rolls his eyes and skirts around the chair to sit.

“I’m glad you’re settling down,” Ari says with a firm pat to Ransom’s shoulder.

He huffs in response and leans back in his seat, letting his legs spread wide. “Unfortunately, she works for my grandad and that old bastard will definitely suspect me when she disappears, but I need her.”

“Serves you right,” Lloyd says with a snicker and elbow to the tech genius beside him. Jake shifts and only briefly lifts his gaze from his device. “Now you gotta be just as love sick as the rest of us.”

Ransom hisses and sneers, but the mercenary’s already back to his task.

“That it?” Robert puffs smoke toward him with the question.

The trust fund baby grimaces. “Yes,” he bites.

“Thank fuck. I can do that easy.” The hitman stands and shrugs on his jacket. “I’ll text you in a couple weeks. Just make sure when I do, you get witnesses—preferably your grampa himself. You’ll be in the clear and go home to a sweet li’l thing in your attic.” He taps off the ash from his cigarette and cocks his head. “Just like I did with Mr. Hero over there for his hellcat.” He chuckles at Andy’s glare and straightens.

“That’s not gonna cut it,” Ransom barks back. “Harlan’s way too cunning. He’ll know.” He gestures to his temple and stands back up, stepping firmly toward the hitman. “It can’t just be a smash and grab. We’ll need to plan this out step by step—a long game.”

“Fine. Do it your way, prick,” Robert grunts with a glare, nudging his chair back from the circle. “Now, can I get home?”

The men exchange looks. Jake stands, phone tucked to his side. A wave of his hand prompts Lloyd to follow. Lloyd looks up and shrugs, grabbing his own jacket from his chair.

“If we don’t have any other business, I suppose.”

With a muttered, “great,” Robert spins on his heel and charges off without any further notice.

Ransom grumbles and glances around in agitation, hesitating only a second before dashing after the hitman’s quickly retreating figure. The door closes behind them with a clunk. Jake follows, a skip in his step while Lloyd brings his phone to his ear and greets the voice on the line. A flash of a wink sent over his shoulder toward the oldest member of the group before he bursts out the door.

Ari hums, deep and low, and turns toward Andy. The man’s jaw ticks with frustration. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Shame hangs heavy on his shoulders, a sense of failure. Ari can smell it in the air. He smooths his hands over his thighs and waits for the D.A. to acknowledge him. Andy turns almost immediately, eager to hear any word of advice.

“I think it’s time I step in,” Ari declares leaving no room for argument.

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foxgloveprincess · 3 months

Text

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Female Reader, Lance Tucker x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: After your night with Ransom, you’re moving on—really.

Word Count: 2,818

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark, Stalking, Fear/Paranoia, Unreliable Narrator, Yandere Vibes, BDSM (Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Rope Bondage, Suspension, Aftercare), brief Smut (Vaginal Penetration, Unsatisfying), Pet Names (baby, pidge, etc). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Here’s some more Ransom, being patient as he can be. Let me know what you think!

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

Breathe. In. Out. Your body relaxes into the cradle of ropes. You catch a glimpse of Chase, his smile shining for his audience. You keep your thoughts on him, too scared to let them drift.

Though, another eye catches yours from the crowd. Your lips twitch and your teeth worry over them. Hunger, deep and dark, glinting. Pride radiating in waves. The eyes of a man who looks at you as though you’re a pristinely polished trophy. And you’re happy to be that for Lance Tucker. Just for him. God, what you’d let that man do to you. Never imagining the man who might do it better—never.

You try to blink away thoughts of that rich asshole and let your eyes drift closed. A hand binding your wrists, around your throat. That smug smirk of his as he took you apart piece by piece.

No. There’s no room for Ransom. He didn’t write you a check, but a week later you’d gotten a direct deposit—more than he’d promised. And you hadn’t heard from him since. Good riddance.

You find Lance in the crowd again and let his proud smile satisfy you. You don’t need some pompous, entitled, egotistical brat hanging around being a creep. You’re glad Ransom got you out of his system. Really. You are.

You breathe a moment, centering yourself back in the present. There’s no need to think about Ransom Drysdale. None at all.

“Are you alright?” Chase asks in a quiet tone. His hand reaches out to steady you, grounding you to the conversation with him.

“I’m fine,” you reply before assessing the state of your body. “But a little sore? Maybe? I think I might need to come down soonish.”

“Alright,” Chase says. He turns back to the crowd announcing the end of his presentation, explaining the aftercare and begins to lower the rig.

Your belly finds the mats, hands still wrapped behind your back. You turn your head and rest it on the cushion while you wait. Chase approaches and kneels by your waist.

A laugh huffs from your chest when you look up at him. “I could have stayed up longer.”

Chase quirks a brow. “I’m sure you could have. But I didn’t think you should.”

You make an accepting sound in your throat and let him do his work. A minute passes before your limbs are all free. Chase wraps the rope from his palm to his elbow, winding it to put away.

Slowly, you begin to move. First legs, stretching into the air and bending, then arms. When you finally push up from the mat, Chase stands ready to help guide you back to your room.

“You did good today,” you remark as you both walk down the hallway. “They were eating up every word. Saw a bunch heading toward your photography table.” He smiles at you. “I think they really like the pose, too.”

The door opens to your room and you find your futon. Chase hands you your snack and drink.

“What do you think about going vertical next week?” he asks, brushing his fingers over your forehead while you lay comfortably on your bed.

“As long as I’m not upside down,” you reply with closed eyes and a yawn.

“I’ll let Lance know you’re ready for him.” Chase leaves you drifting off to sleep to get your boyfriend—the newest addition to your aftercare routine.

The door opens and you feel the tender touch of Lance’s hand. He leans down to kiss your lips.

“Hey, baby,” you murmur, half asleep. But when you turn over and open your eyes, no one’s there. You sit up and glance around.

The door sits in its frame, shut and undisturbed, just like the rest of your room. Must have been your imagination, but you could’ve sworn…

The door opens and Lance struts in. You catch his eye and his smile beams.

“God, you were fantastic!” he enthuses. Taking his hands from his track pants pockets, he cups your cheeks and presses his lips to yours. They taste of cherry chapstick, how could you have forgotten that—the lips that kissed yours before him didn’t.

“You waiting up for me?”

You nod without a word, unsure as to what to say. Part of you wants to mention that moment before he came in. But why would he want to hear about your dream? Instead, you pull back your blanket, inviting him to warm you up.

“As soon as we get back to your place, I’ll get your epsom salt bath going,” he starts, liking the sound of his own voice as much as you do. It grounds you, especially after a strange encounter with a figment of your imagination. “Gotta make sure you aren’t sore in the morning. Then we can get you in your…”

He keeps talking and it lulls you to sleep. Knowing that when you wake up, he’ll take you back to your place and sleep over. And everything will go like it always does.

Which is why you’re unsurprised when Saturday morning dawns and Lance has slotted himself between your thighs.

His hips curve into yours, his cock stretching you wide. Your fingers dig into his spine, clutching him close. Moans spill from your lips. His heavy breaths brush across your cheeks. Sweat beads on his brow as he readjusts you, stretching one of your legs closer to your chest while keeping the other wrapped around his hips.

Your lips press together. It all feels good—always has. Even when you were finding your groove together, with his athleticism and your need for intimacy.

He makes noises of pleasure. His hips accelerating in a signal of his imminent release. Your eyes close, focusing on your own. Lance’s hips stutter. He paints your insides with his cum and sighs.

A sunny smile spreads his lips. How his hair remains coiffed after all the sweat and exertion, you don’t know, but it’s endearing. A quirk you quite adore.

He flops to the side, running his hand along his abdomen, tickling the tattoo of the gold ribbon he has leading down his pelvis. Another uniquely Lance thing. So proud of his accomplishments, and you don’t blame him. He’s incredible.

But your pulse thrums with the dissipating arousal of your unsatisfied lust. Your arms reach over your head, stretching sore muscles. Without meaning to, you let your mind wander. How Ransom made you sore in the best way. How he fit inside you. How he made you cum until you ached for nothing but pleasure.

Your boyfriend’s hand reaches over, smoothing over your tummy and flicking at one of your nipples.

“Where’re you going?” he asks.

You look over and smile. Eyes trace over his pouty lips and bright blue eyes. You tilt your head and brush your lips to his.

“I’m right here,” you reply.

“Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” Harlan asks. He leans back in his chair and you lift your head from your research.

“The toxicology of plant-based poisons,” you reply, immersed in your work. Though, you know it won’t satisfy your boss.

He says nothing more for a moment. Letting you turn your full attention back to the research at hand. He probably didn’t need much help in the subject with how long he’s been writing murder mysteries. Still, he always likes to be accurate. As few creative liberties as possible—at least where it counts.

“Alright,” he says with as little enthusiasm as he can bestow on such an acceptance. “You will tell me eventually, mind.”

“Will I?” you mumble distractedly.

“You’re not a very good liar.”

You snort and turn the page, picking up a highlighter and sticky note to jot down a thought on a passage about cyanide.

“It isn’t something Walt did, is it?” he prods, the weight of his observant gaze heavy on your shoulders.

“No, Harlan,” you reply, recapping the pen in your hand.

“What about Ransom? He gave you some trouble a little while ago.”

You swallow and push aside the embarrassment and panic that spikes through you, replying, “No, Harlan.”

“Huh,” he says.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” you ask with a huff of mild frustration.

“I’m quite stuck on what should happen next,” he says with a flick to the corner of the page.

“Right,” you drone with the skeptical quirk of your eyebrow sent in his direction.

He smiles that enigmatic smile of his and reaches up a hand to cup his chin. “You know I’m just concerned.”

With a sigh, you give up on your work. Your boss won’t let you focus on it anyway. Folding your arms over your chest, you lean back and contemplate how best to word your explanation. One tiny slip and the jig is up. How could you possibly tell him his grandson paid to fuck you better than anyone ever has?

“You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you admit, pursing your lips around the word. “Don’t need to tell you all the gory details, though.”

“That’s the best part of a story,” he refutes with a twinkle in his eye. His full attention remains on you, waiting for the final crack before the flood.

“Let’s just say,” you pause for the right wording. “My boyfriend is amazing, but doesn’t always…” You trail off with a hand gesture to imply the rest.

“You mean in the boudoir?” Harlan twines his fingers and tilts his head in interest.

You snort and nod. “Yeah.” You lean back in your chair until your eyes meet the ceiling. “Got me thinking about the last prick. He was an asshole, but he...” You trail off, uncertain as to how you might finish the thought.

Harlan looks at you a long while. When your head turns to meet his gaze, he says, “May I offer advice in the form of an old adage?”

You sit upright and nod. “Lay it on me.” Complete with a grabbing motion of your hands.

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”

It sits in the air, letting you soak it in. Harlan returns to his manuscript in silence. Yet you’re stuck on the words. He’s right. Ransom is your past—a blip, if anything—and Lance is your future—a real, solid one at that.

You turn back to your research with determination. Refusing to let Ransom occupy a second more of your thoughts. You start back on your note about cyanide.

“I know that’s not all, by the by,” your boss intones right as your pen meets paper. “But it’s enough for now.”

You swallow and glance over your shoulder to him. “Thanks.”

Harlan nods with a hum and places his glasses on his nose.

The sounds of the typewriter fill the empty space of the room and the two of you continue your work. You lose yourself to the facts and let the hours tick by. Thoughts wavering on your future.

“Seriously, this tastes like shit.”

You hear his voice before you see him. Your heart drops to your stomach. All you can think is ‘Oh, God, no.’ Your feet find the final step and you freeze. Unsure of the best course of action.

You might be able to completely skirt by unnoticed through the front door. Or the back patio. As long as Ransom stays in the kitchen.

It was coming back inside that posed the problem. Harlan sending you on an errand to the local public library to pick up a book he placed on hold. If Ransom were still here, how could you avoid him without knowing his position in the mansion?

“It’s a good thing I didn’t make it for you, Hugh,” Fran replies.

You blink out of your momentary panic. As if Ransom ever stayed so long with his grandfather. He’d be long gone by the time you got back. You scurry out the door, closing it with the softest click.

The breeze bites through the air. It stings your face with its crisp coolness. You wrap your scarf tighter around your neck and bundle your hands deeper into your sleeves. On the threshold of winter, you dread the thought of the first snow.

You wait a moment for your car to warm before driving down the road to town. Thoughts mull in your mind, but music tunes them out. The radio already blasting holiday songs on repeat, prompting another train of thought to occupy you. Your first holiday not alone. Gifts for Lance. Holiday plans and the small, hopeful feeling warm in your chest.

You find a parking spot at the library and exit your car. The cold wind bustles you inside and you walk to the front counter. Used to your face, the librarians move quickly to check-out Harlan’s book to you. You smile and thank them, and then you’re on your way back, with little time to get your head on straight when thoughts of Ransom resurface.

Parking the car, you linger a moment in the quickly dissipating heat. The car door slams behind you. A few quick strides take you back up the steps and into the house. You shiver as you undress your outerwear, hanging each piece up on your hook—coat, hat, scarf, mittens.

You pause to listen. Straining to see if you can hear Ransom’s voice anywhere in the house. Knowing how much he likes to hear himself speak. Nothing. A sigh of relief blows past your lips.

The stairs creak on your ascent. Marta greets you on her way down, a furrow between her brow. You almost ask her about it, but she slips away in a quick descent.

You make it to the second landing and stop. He’s standing right there. Staring at a painting on the wall—one you’d admired before, reminiscent of Artemisia Gentileschi. One you pass multiple times a day on your way up to Harlan’s study. One of your favorite pieces in the house, really.

Wishing to turn invisible just for a moment, you clutch the book close to your chest and close your eyes. With determination, you open them and march past Ransom, ignoring his presence. Yet, in your periphery, his head turns.

“Oh,” he says—is there a tinge of affection in his tone? He cocks his head to the side and takes a long perusal of your body. His eyes narrow. “Where have you been?” Any question of tenderness vanishes with the question. Replaced by his usual derision.

You hold up the book in explanation. He squints at the cover and his lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. He seems to think better of a comment and looks back to the painting.

“If you’ll excuse me then, Mr. Drysdale.”

His jaw ticks in irritation. Eyes flashing toward you, he grits, “Call me Ransom, pidge.”

You step sideways toward the stairs up to Harlan’s personal study. “Right,” you mutter under your breath. “I just thought—” You shake your head. A buzz in your pocket catches your attention. You pull the screen halfway out to check. The preview of a text from Lance shines up at you. Your lips twitch toward a smile as you tuck it away. “Nevermind.” You make it up two steps before you hear his voice again.

“Is Lance treating you right?”

You might have thought the question just a figment of your imagination—prone as you are to those. But turning around, he watches you curiously. Your lips part, stunned.

“How did you know about him?” you ask with a glance over your shoulder to the upstairs door, drawn but not closed. Praying that Harlan won’t be privy to this unexpected conversation.

“Friend of a friend,” Ransom replies with a shrug. But his eyes do not leave yours. It unsettles you, the steadiness of his focus.

You swallow down your unease. “Why do you care?” you prod. Your face scrunches in an expression of dubiousness.

Ransom blinks and looks away to the painting again. “I don’t.” The words rasp between his teeth.

“Right,” you mutter under your breath. “Well, Ransom.” Your fingers tap on the book cover. “I, uh, hope you have a nice rest of your day.”

You retreat up the rest of the stairs and enter Harlan’s study. With a great huff of air releasing your nerves and pent-up frustration, you glance at your boss. A curious expression adorns his features. Your stomach flips, but you ignore it and hand over his book, ready to get back to work. You’re sure he’ll ask his questions later.

As for you, you’ve got some answered. Like the fantasy of whether Ransom would really be such a horrible option. The answer is yes. No matter how well he fucked you or how he sent you reeling in your throes of passion, he is not the man for you. Of that, you’re now absolutely certain.

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drydale x you #ransom drysdale fanfiction #ransom drysdale fanfic #dark #dark fic #lance tucker fanfic #lance tucker fanfiction #lance tucker x reader #smut #yandere vibes #tw stalking #stalking #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 1 year

Text

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: He wants something from you—something you’ll never give.

Word Count: 1,600

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark, Rape/Non Con (Forced Blowjob, brief Cunnilingus), Kidnapping, Basement Wife Trope, Delusion, Cursing, Threats, Fighting, Attempts at Maiming, Vomiting, Mild Grossness, Pet Names (honey, precious). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Let’s meet Andy’s precious housewife that keeps giving him trouble, shall we? This ended up feeling kinda nasty/disgusting in bits, so beware. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know if I should continue it!

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is unBeta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

This is not worth $873. None of it. You should have just walked away. Taken your loss and moved on. But the police came to you in their investigation. They told you you held the key to their case, that you could help bring justice to others like you. Duped by a pretty picture and sweet words.

You called it catfishing. They called it a romance scam. Either way, you were painted in an unflattering light. They made it so easy to save face. You only had to tell the truth, stand your ground on the cross examination.

And you’d won.

After the trial, you’d walked up to Mr. Logiudice and thanked him for his efforts in putting the man who’d stolen your money behind bars. Even let him hug you a little too long, the relief too overwhelming. If only you knew the door he’d opened up. The snake he’d let slip through the grass. You should have punched his fucking teeth in.

But the blame may also sit on your shoulders, at least a little. One night, just the one, walking around your neighborhood to try to start an active lifestyle. You’d gotten lost in your music for maybe a block, enjoying your favorite song. The blackness had descended all at once.

You’d woken up here. Four musty, dank walls. No windows. Hands shackled together. One foot tethered to the foot of the bed. Just enough of a lead to let you piss in a bucket in the corner. And it was so cold—it’s always so cold. The flimsiest scrap of worn linen the only protection from it in your possession. You say ‘your possession’, but you’ve come to learn you don’t have those anymore.

Footsteps descend the steps outside. Your teeth grit. Rage boils in your gut, the only thing left to you. Cause you sure as shit ain’t gonna submit to the bastard. He’ll never get what he wants from you. Never.

“Honey,” he calls from behind the door, all sweetness and sensitivity. Bile rises in your throat. At least you’re not deceived by it anymore. It won’t last. “You away from the door?” As if he actually cares about your well-being. “I’m coming in.”

A growl rolls in your throat. Your lips snarl, baring your teeth. The door clicks open and he smiles—the bane of your existence.

“There you are,” he coos, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. He approaches, arms open and sleeves rolled up. His dress shirt stretches across the expanse of his chest, almost appealing. The gods certainly blessed him with a mighty fine figure, but that heart rots black in his chest. “How’re you doing today, precious?”

His hand cups your face, rubbing his thumb against the swell of your cheek. Your head snaps to the side, teeth biting at his fingers. He clicks his tongue, quick to evade your attempt at mutilation. His lips purse and he tilts his head in examination of you.

“It’s okay,” he assures you with a pat to your head. “I know how stressful this is for you.” Though he grins, it sits strained on his face, not quite reaching his eyes. He sighs and sits heavily beside you. You rear back and kick out at him with your free foot. He hums, and attempts to soothe you like a spooked horse. “Now, none of that.” His thumb brushes your ankle. “I’ve got an important question for you.”

He dips forward, hand firm on your leg to keep it immobile and presses a kiss to your shin. His lips twitch toward a smile. Your eyes roll. With all the gravitas you’ve come to expect from this recurrent sham, he reaches for your hands and holds them close to his chest, not matter how your try to rip them away.

He takes a deep breath, meets your gaze, and asks, “Will you marry me, honey?”

And, just like every other time, you pause. Not to contemplate accepting—hell no. You take a moment to wonder at his utter audacity, his delusion to think you’d ever accept whatever bullshit at which he’s playing.

“Suck my dick,” you enunciate through gritted teeth, scowling and leaning threateningly forward.

The switch flips in his eyes. Immediate. He scowls and grips your hands too tight. “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“What’re you gonna do?” you snark, unable to help yourself. You’ve trod this dangerous line before and know it’s only a matter of time. But he’s never done anything except storm out with a slam of the door. “Wash my mouth out with soap? Newsflash, asshole, there’s no running water down here.”

He stares, a moment too long. “I’ll just have to fill your mouth with something sweeter.” His hand lowers to his belt and he stands, looming over your figure.

Still, you won’t back down. “I’ll bite it off,” you threaten with a snarl.

“Then I’ll pry out every single one of your pretty teeth.” He holds your face, tilting your chin up. His fingers sink into your cheeks until you have no choice but to comply with the pressure of his grip and open your mouth. “Now, be good for me.”

You wrench your head from side to side, trying to break free from his hold. But fail. His free hand works at his button and fly, removing the obstruction of material until he grips himself in his hand. Your eyes flick up to meet his, feeling dread pool in your belly with your bile. It sinks and smothers some of the fight in you. He smirks, seeing you falter and takes the opportunity to guide his cock toward your face.

It taps against your cheek, smears his arousal over your skin before doing the same to the other side.

“Whoops,” he murmurs, without even a hint of sincerity. “Open wide.”

With his fingers still keeping the hinge of your jaw open, it’s not like you have any choice. He sinks in between your lips and toward the back of your throat. Panic sets in. You wriggle against him and try to free yourself, to no avail.

“Hey,” he barks with a pop to your cheek with his free hand, “cut that out.”

You blink away the daze from the slap and try to keep steady, keep breathing. Your hands curl together in your lap, gripping at each other in all your trepidation and anger and pain. To be so helpless at the mercy of his desire, you feel sick, feel it rising up your throat. But he pushes it back as his hips begin to rock and he takes his pleasure from your orifice.

He groans, deep and gravelly. His eyes close and his head tips back. Not even looking at you while using your mouth. How often he’s claimed to adore you when any hole would have satisfied his needs.

As he sinks further into his pursuits and your throat, his hands wander, cradling your head. He tilts you and holds you steady. Indulging in it while you suffer.

You blink away the treacherous tears and try to block out the musky smell of him infiltrating your nose. Trying to picture your life before, your home, your friends. All of them almost too far away to grasp when your jaw aches and he continues to plunder your mouth.

Despite your adamant detachment to the act, he doesn’t seem to mind. He contents himself in your ruin, spouting unintelligible praises and declarations. You ignore his bleating, trying to block every moment of the encounter from your mind. But his hips stutter and before you can prepare yourself, he groans once more and spills down your throat.

His chest rises and falls with heavy pants. He withdraws from you and you turn away, vomiting up his spend and your disgust of him across the floor. He clicks his tongue and rubs your shoulders, soothing you before turning you to face him. He wipes your mouth with a gentle finger and you’ve no energy to try to retaliate with your own spite.

“There now,” he says softly, “all better.”

His lips stretch toward his smarmy grin and he leans forward, taking advantage of your sorry state to slant his lips over yours. His tongue takes no time at all to invade, swiping into your mouth. Disregarding the sourness of the sick lingering on yours. You scream against his lips, bound hands pushing at his chest, but he remains locked to you. Kissing you to his fill.

When he finally withdraws, he presses his forehead to yours, even as you attempt to dislodge him. He pleads, “You don’t have to love me, you just have to marry me.” His eyes catch yours, blown with lust and dark. Something sinister lurking deep down. Talking like the devil, smooth words and slippery promises. “I can take you outta here. Make you so comfortable. Be so nice to you.”

You swallow and lean away, as far as he’ll let you. Mortified as his lips trail down your neck, across your belly, toward the apex of your thighs. You begin to wriggle again, but he won’t be deterred.

He pries apart your thighs and breathes deeply, nose pressing to the crest of your mons. Your legs lash out, trying to keep him away from you and your unwashed body. Threats and protests spill from your lips, stinging and sharp. But he remains deaf to them. Too focused on his destination. He sinks down and begins his torture with one sloppy, debasing lick of your sex and a guttural moan.

#andy barber x reader #andy barber fanfic #andy barber fanfiction #dark #dark fic #rape #tw rape #non con #tw non con #kidnapping #tw kidnapping #yandere vibes #basement wife trope #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 1 year

Text

Summary: What do the boys talk about when their wifeys are all locked up safe at home?

Word Count: 1,216

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

A/N: This stemmed from an old idea that bloomed into this about a week ago. Hope you enjoy it. Let me know if I should continue it!

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

“So, tell me. How’s your little chickadee doing?” The man crosses his arms and slouches in his chair. His legs spread wide and bump into the ones beside him.

Ari sighs with a scratch of his fingers through his greying beard and cuts a glare in his direction. “She’s doing fine, Hansen.”

“Her old man still looking for her?” Lloyd pops a sucker in his mouth—though no one knows from where he got it. Only that they’re abundant in his presence, making him smell just a little sickly sweet.

“You want me to take care of him?” Robert asks, a gristle in his voice as he shuffles around to find his pack of smokes in his pocket. “I got a job up that way.”

“I have it handled,” Ari answers. His jaw ticks. His hands clench into fists on his thighs. “That asshole won’t be a problem for much longer.”

No one has the chance to comment more as a chair scrapes loudly across the floor to join their circle. A familiar, beleaguered man slumps into it. Lloyd crows a laugh and uses his lollipop to point.

“Someone’s being a pain in your ass, aren’t they?”

The man grumbles under his breath, incomprehensible to the members of the group around him.

“Come on, Barber, tell us about it,” Lloyd goads with a shit-eating grin, “your housewife not everything she’s cracked up to be?”

“Shut your mouth,” Andy replies with a fierce glower and a sharp point of his finger. “She’s adjusting.”

“Give him a break,” another man says, clapping Andy on the back and sitting in the seat beside him. “It’s his first time taking a little honeypot for himself.”

“I don’t need your help, Drysdale,” Andy grumbles. He brushes the man’s hand from his shoulder. His head rests back on his shoulders as he sighs. “She’s still trying to break out of the basement.” His hand reaches up to massage his forehead, working out the strain around his eyes.

“Your neighbors starting to get suspicious yet?” Robert asks with a quirk of his brow. His glasses glint in the overhead fluorescent lights.

“Not yet,” Andy replies, shifting in his seat and crossing his arm. His face pinches in discomfort. “Jensen set me up with good soundproofing.”

The man’s head perks up at the mention of his name, previously content to filter out the conversation in favor of watching his phone. “What?”

Ransom sighs and reaches out to knock Jake’s shoulder in admonition. “Why did you even come if you’re just going to stare at your screen the whole time?”

Jake pouts and adjusts his glasses. “I can’t help it,” he protests, turning the device around to show the group a glimpse before tucking it close to his chest. “She’s just so precious. Can’t get enough of her.”

“You move her yet?” Robert asks, resting his forearms on his knees. His wide shoulders rolling into the position like he’s getting ready to pounce. “Cause it looks to me like she’s still at home.”

The youngest man of the group grimaces and hems. “I’m still working on relocation.”

“The contractor still giving you guff?” Ari asks, leaning forward in interest. His brow smooths at the subject being far away from his girl, tucked away safe at his cabin. His lips twist toward a smile just thinking of her.

Jake’s shoulders lift in a shrug. He won’t meet their eye. “I think he’s pissed cause I have tech add-ons that I need to keep classified. Messes up his flow.”

The snick of Robert’s lighter interrupts Jake’s thought. “But you’re good for what you owe him?”

“Of course,” Jake scoffs, a stormy look of affront clouding his normally cheery features. “Why the fuck would I think of taking my girl if I couldn’t provide for her adequately in all the way she needs?”

“Calm down, Jake,” Andy counsels with hand lifting in placation, “You know we only have the group’s best interest at heart.” His cool eyes scan across the circle. All five of the other men stare back. “We look out for each other.”

“It’s the basement,” Lloyd pipes up with a nod toward the D.A. Curious eyes turn toward the man and his non sequitur. “Too fucking cold down there, I bet. Give your housewife some nice lovin’ somewhere warm and she’ll be putty in your hands.”

“There is a reason we all favor attics,” Ransom adds with a contemplative nod.

“Aside from the fact that jumping out a window on the upper floor stings like a bitch,” Lloyd adds with a cheeky smile.

“Still remember cleaning up the splat at Pronge’s first place,” Ransom adds with an exaggerated wince.

“Shut the fuck up,” the hit man barks, crushing his cigarette between his fingers like a threat.

The tension smothers the group for an elongated moment. No one breaks it. They shift in their seats, and wait for someone else to crack. The clock on the wall ticks. The air conditioner rumbles on.

“At least,” Ari broaches, tone cautious, “we learned a valuable lesson.”

Robert puffs a cloud of smoke from a new cigarette with a click of his teeth. “And my princess would never,” he adds in a growl.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Ransom intones with a smirk. Only to be met with sharp daggers in the gaze of the hit man.

“Well, you’ve had plenty of that,” Jake snorts, distracted again by his surveillance.

Ransom cuts a harsh glare at the young man. His lips purse on an excuse and colorful curse when Andy interrupts his thought.

“Have you settled on anyone yet?”

“I weeded out a few more,” Ransom replies, wiping his mouth with his hand. “The contractor did a great job with my attic, I just gotta find the girl who fits up there.” His hand gestures around in a play of defeat—as if he weren’t the sole reason behind all the delays.

“How many are still on your radar?” Ari asks, curiosity underlined by ire.

“Just a baker’s dozen.”

Quiet outrage follows his statement. Each of the five faces surrounding him screw up with disbelief or vexation. Ransom drinks it in like a fine wine.

“Indecisive piece of shit,” Robert mutters under his breath.

Even Lloyd, a kindred spirit to Ransom among the group, stares in incredulity. None of them understand his ability to resist the siren call of the one. None of them had been able to.

“You obviously haven’t met the right girl yet,” Andy sneers before glancing toward the oldest member of the group.

“You wouldn’t be spouting this bullshit if you had,” Ari agrees with a tilt of his head, not moving his scrutinizing gaze from the trust fund baby.

Robert starts putting away his chair, stacking it with a clang on the pile by the back door—adjourning their meeting without a word. Jake’s head pops up from his screen before he does the same with a smile on his face. Andy and Ari both leave with one final glance at Ransom who sits with his brow furrowed.

Lloyd chuckles as he stands, the sound dark yet giddy. He slaps a hand down on the other man’s shoulder. Ransom flashes his gaze to the mercenary.

“Oh, playboy, it’s gonna bite you in the ass.”

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foxgloveprincess · 1 day

Text

Pairing: Cole Turner x Female Reader, Curtis Everett x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Summary: You always try to be your best at your job.

Word Count: 919

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark, Dubious Consent (Sex Toys, mild Overstimulation), Manhandling, Clueless Reader, Cages, Pet Names (pup, lamb, etc.). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Time to meet the contractor/handyman and his business partner, the toy maker. It’s a side story for A.W.A. that I just wanted to peek into. Don’t know if there’ll be any more parts to this. But Enjoy!

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is unBeta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Things you now knew were stupid: answering a sketchy ad on the side of the road for a job in product testing. Apparently not your brightest idea. As Jeanne would say, you’re a dumb bitch. At least you were cute.

It hadn’t seemed that bad. Cole and Curtis were pleasant, though they made you well aware of your deficient resume. You didn’t have marketable skills. It was something people said a lot.

But that didn’t stop them from hiring you. They wanted you to start right away. And the benefits? They said they’d be comprehensive.

What they didn’t mention was what exactly that meant. You were just happy they’d chosen you. With job after job firing you for ‘incompetence’, they’d seen your potential. Had said so, in exactly those words. You’d been on cloud nine, smiling wide.

Before they opened the door to your office and had you test the first product.

“Just turn your head toward the camera,” Cole coaxes, his sweet words dripping over you like honey.

Your feverish body slumps over. The machine between your legs continuing its torturous thrusts and vibrations.

A warm hand falls to your lower back, the other tilting your head up to meet stormy blue eyes.

“She’s had enough,” Curtis says. With a flick of a switch, the machine beneath you turns off.

“Come on, man,” Cole whines, “just a little longer. She’s so fucking adorable when she breaks like this.”

“We don’t want to break her.”

Bundled into strong arms, you’re pulled off the toy and laid out on a nearby cushion. Your limbs melt into the plush fabric, twitching from overstimulation. Not an ounce of strength to move of your own volition. That’s all been fucked out of you.

“It’s half the fun,” Cole mutters under his breath, starting a routine of cleaning off the toy. Though he complains, he won’t go against his partner outright. They work too well together for that.

A quiet moment passes, Cole cleaning up and Curtis rummaging through some drawers. He produces a blanket a few moments later and carefully wraps you in it. You hum and lean close to his gentle touch.

“By the way, Ari’s got me making a tail for his girl,” Cole says, joining Curtis in putting you away. He tilts your chin up with a finger. “How do you feel about that?”

You blink slowly and let incomprehensible mumbles fall past your lips. Mostly in the affirmative, not quite understanding how they’ll make you a tail. Isn’t that something animals are born with? Or sometimes like your cousin Courtney? Your brow furrows as you try to think.

You shiver and grip at the quilt over your shoulders, tucking it closer to your face. For one night you wish they’d let you sleep here. Not that you’d complain about your normal accommodations. They could always fire you, and then where would you be?

“Don’t go falling asleep on us now or you’ll forget your form,” Cole reminds. He tucks a pen and paper into your unsteady grip and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You blink to clear your eyes and look at the short form. Five questions and a comment box.

“Do you need help?” Curtis asks, a hand on the cushion by your head, close enough to touch.

Despite the urge to stretch into his touch and accept his generosity, you shake your head. It’s your job, you’ll do it yourself. Dragging your body from the cushion, you sit up and place the paper on your leg. Scrawl the product description on the top line. All five questions stare up at you, a scale of 1 to 5 beneath.

Is the product enticing to potential customers?

Is the product innovative?

Does the product seem high quality?

Is the product different from other products?

Does the product fulfill our customer’s needs and wants?

Though sluggish, your brain processes each question and makes a thoughtful rating for Cole’s new machine. The comment box proves more difficult. Words harder to scrawl while your hand lacks its usual strength and dexterity. But you jot down a few notes—about the vibration and the fit, you think?

A yawn cracks your jaw and you stand on wobbly legs. Holding onto different bits of furniture about the room, you hobble to place the paper in its usual basket. They’ll look at it at the end of the month and determine what to do with it.

Legs like jelly, you steady yourself a moment too long. Your bosses preparing your next task. You glance over and sigh. Still trying to perfect that thing. They’ve been working on it since you started working for them.

“Come on, pup,” Curtis beckons, voice gruff, holding the door open. “Time for some shuteye.”

You nod and bend your knees, ducking into the small metal cage. They finally got the cushion on the bottom thick enough that you don’t feel the bars digging into your side as you lay down. And they added some personal touches—a few pillows, your favorite blankets, a stuffed animal—to ensure the space still allows comfort to fit a full-grown human.

Another yawn breaks free of your lips. Your head falls to the pillow and you let your eyes flutter shut.

Fingers caress your cheek through the bars. You peek open your eyes to see Cole, a soft look of satisfaction on his face.

“Time for a little nap, little lamb,” he whispers, “then there’s a few more things we need to test.”

#curtis everett x reader #cole turner x reader #dark #dark fic #dub con #tw dub con #attic wives anonymous #18+#minors dni

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foxgloveprincess · 2 years

Text

Pairing: DBF Ari Levinson x Female Reader [Second Person Narrator]

Word Count: 4,425

Summary: Your online friend supports you in everything you do—and in everything you want. Perhaps a little too much.

Attic Wives Anonymous Masterlist

Warnings: Dark (Soft Dark including Non Con/Dub Con, Kidnapping, and implied Attic Wife), Kissing and Sex (Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Penetration, Unprotected Sex, Overstimulation, Praise, Biting, Rope Bondage), Modern AU, Age Gap (Ari is in his 40s, Reader is in her 20s), Dad’s Best Friend, Strained Father/Daughter Relationship (with implications of Verbal Abuse), Online Friendship, Texting, Shared Fantasizing (including Kidnapping Fantasies), Catfishing, Implied Stalking, Daddy Kink, Yandere Behavior, Obsessive Behavior, Crying, Pet Names (li’l dip, baby, li’l bear, etc). Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: This idea has been percolating in the back of my head for months. Today it strikes me and it becomes a DBF story, so there you go. The video mentioned is this one which absolutely tickled me pink when I first watched it. Also, anyone else just wonder sometimes who’s sitting across the screen from you? Sorry if this hits a little too close to home in that regard. Title from “Meant to Be Yours” from Heathers the Musical

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog/comment if you want. No permission given to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work, at all. I cross-post to my own AO3 account.

I don’t do tag lists, so follow @foxglovefics to sign up for notifications on my fics.

This is not Beta’d, so all mistakes are my own.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing themes/dynamics/warnings, thank you!

The summer sun beats down on your shoulders, reflected into your eyes on the soft waves of the lake. You sip some sickly sweet cocktail in a can and lean back on the dock. Soaking in the atmosphere and trying so hard not to think about your phone, sitting right beside your fingertips ready to be snatched up at any second.

You sigh, glancing once more at the black screen. It’s silly. Reception is shit up here. She probably has—

Your phone buzzes, vibrating the wood and sending a thrill shooting through your veins. You grab the device, fumbling with your drink and nearly spilling all over your clothes. But the notification is there.

paintedmermaid: I can’t believe he said that. He’s a bastard and you deserve better.

Tears sting your eyes—from your sunscreen and moisturizer, surely, right—definitely not from such a simple message. You sniff and blink, smiling down at the screen.

: I know, but he’s my dad.

paintedmermaid: I’m still gonna kick his ass if I ever meet him.

“Who’s got you all smiley, li’l dip?”

You jump and tuck your phone close to your chest. Peeking over your shoulder, your breath hitches. The relief of it not being your dad is short lived, his best friend standing behind you with a curious glint in his eye.

“Why do you call me that?” you ask in return, tilting your head and scrunching your brows. Not that you’ve ever truly minded, the fuzzy feeling in your tummy proof of it.

The man chuckles, shaking his head. Hands resting in his pockets, he shrugs. “Like the Little Dipper, the constellation. A cute little baby bear—I figured it’s fitting, being as young as you are and all.”

“I’m not a child,” you refute, turning on your rear to glare up at him. Biting back at the insult you never thought you’d hear from him.

“I know,” he assures, with a tilt of his head and a grin. “Still thought it was fitting for you.” His nonchalance doesn’t falter, waiting to gauge your reaction.

You sigh, releasing that fizzling spark of ire from your chest. Watching his head nod toward your phone, waiting for the answer to his question.

It’s hard to swallow, heart thumping in your chest as you reply, “It’s just a friend.”

“A friend?” he asks, stepping closer and taking a seat beside you. You scoot over, giving him space, though as he settles his knee rests against your own. “Your dad said you didn’t have anyone to bring on the trip.”

Looking down at your lap, your shoulders curl forward, trying to shield yourself from the embarrassment. It’s true. Here you are, at your dad’s lake house, all alone with your dad, his new wife, and his best friend Ari. Not exactly a riot in your books. Certainly a crowd well out of your age bracket.

“She lives across the country,” you mumble, bending your knees and wrapping your arms around them.

“How did you even meet?” he asks, a lilt to his voice you don’t quite understand—something playful, amused, a little off-putting.

“Online.” You shrug, ducking your chin closer to your knees. Awaiting the inevitable tirade about your ‘reclusive nature’ stemming from an ‘unhealthy digital life’—you’d gotten it from your dad often enough.

“I’m glad you have someone to talk to,” he says instead, hand resting on your shoulder and squeezing gently.

Peeking over at him, a small smile pulls at your lips. You don’t understand how a man like Ari could be friends with your dad. They’d met while you were in college, hitting it off at work and becoming close despite an age difference of about ten years. Yet since then, he’s been around. All the time. The best man at your dad’s wedding, at almost every family dinner, holidays and barbecues. But he’s nothing like your dad—supportive when your dad is critical, calm when your dad is volatile, comforting when your dad is cold. It’s no wonder you’d accepted him into your life without a fuss.

“Her name is Arielle,” you add, voice quiet and hesitant, “she’s does these really pretty watercolor paintings.”

“I’ve always wanted to try that kind of art,” he comments, fingers still dancing along the skin of your shoulder, a soothing touch that barely catches your notice. “What do you talk to her about?”

“Everything.” You smile and look to her message on your phone. “When my job’s giving me a tough time or what she’s painting. What we hope for and dream about.”

Ari hums, a low reassuring sound, and nods. “She sounds like a good friend.”

Your phone buzzes.

paintedmermaid: I really need someone to take me away, right now.

Your lips purse in a frown. Fingers tapping quickly, you type out your inquiry.

: What’s happened?

Another response doesn’t come quick enough, anxiety building up in your belly until it threatens to climb up your throat. You wait, returning to work, distracted while checking for typos. But at the first buzz of your phone, you drop everything to check.

paintedmermaid: I just can’t stop thinking about what you were telling me last night. Now all I want is someone to whisk me away and keep me locked up safe and sated.

paintedmermaid: I think I’m just horny.

You chuckle at Arielle’s antics, shaking your head and thinking of a response. It’s easier to get back to work, letting your mind focus on your task. You wait to let your thoughts drift until your break, picking up your phone and responding while picking at your lunch.

: I get it. Sometimes all I want is to be someone’s kept woman. No responsibilities, no big decisions. Just someone who’ll take care of me and fuck me until I can’t think anymore.

You sigh and tilt your head back on your shoulders. The stretch feels good, your whole body stiff. Your phone pings.

paintedmermaid: You’d be such a good little baby! 😆 You just need a Daddy to take you in and spoil you rotten.

Your eyes roll and you scoot down in your chair, uncaring of any more aches or pains the poor posture might incite.

: Don’t I know it. Alas, the struggle is real. Not like anyone is lining up around the block for me.

paintedmermaid: What about that guy your dad’s friends with? He’s so hot. Talk about Daddy.🤌💋

You choke on a sip of water, sputtering while scanning the suggestion over and over. Ari? Really? You can’t say you haven’t thought about it. Haven’t gotten weak in the knees when his attentions have landed on you. Haven’t imagined perhaps what could be. But, no.

: 🫣 I couldn’t.

paintedmermaid: You could. 😌 But suit yourself.

paintedmermaid: Btw did you see that trailer for that new vampire movie. I was shaking. 🥴

: Yes! OMG! 🫠

The conversation continues from there—all traces of her shocking suggestion left behind. Even when your break ends and work begins again, messages interrupt your proofreading. And you cave each time. Responding to her speculations in kind, the two of you building a story together, back and forth with ideas until your deepest darkest fantasies stare back at you from the screen.

By the time the sun sits low on the horizon and you’re clocking out, you’re giddy with the naughty endeavor you’ve written out. Salacious enough to make an erotica novelist blush.

You prepare a lonely dinner, popping on a movie to watch—something tried a true, and not emotionally taxing. You eat in front of the screen, scrolling through the dialogue, waiting for a response. Chest aching with the bitterness of knowing such a thing will never become reality. That fantasy is all it will ever be. No one will want you enough—adore you enough—to steal you away.

You halt that train of thought in its progress before it can consume you, throwing your attention into the movie and setting your phone aside. Despite the needling temptation to return to the smaller screen and let yourself be dragged under.

Arielle doesn’t message back until late in the night. A video sent through the stream. Stuffed animal clutched tight to your chest, you smile into the plush.

You tap it and it plays in the quiet. A compilation with responses from people jokingly—and maybe not-so-jokingly—estimating how long it would take them to fall into Stockholm Syndrome. A giddy feeling bubbles within you, near overwhelmed by the relief of having someone to talk to—someone who understands you. Overjoyed by that realization that you are seen. Sleep finds you as the video loops, a smile etched on your lips and dreams full of tall figures luring you toward a delicious doom.

The laundry machine keeps eating your underwear. It’s not all the time or too many pairs, but enough that it finally catches your notice. Panties disappearing off the face of the planet. Leaving you debating your use of the building’s laundry room.

paintedmermaid: I’m sorry. 😬 Maybe you should ask around your building?

: No way. 😱

Your head shakes, tilted back against the rumbling machine. A chunk of time out of your day spent sitting in front of the dryer because you can’t leave your laundry alone anymore, apparently. You sigh.

: It’s no big deal. I have you to keep me company. 💜

She doesn’t reply. Your message sitting unanswered. You bite at your nails, but accept the silence. Turning off your screen and sitting back.

Alone with your thoughts, you ruminate on the other strange occurrences arising in the past week. The disappearing underwear just the tip of the iceberg. There’s the migrating books, the multiplying cookies, the washed dishes. All of them little ruptures throughout the day, nuisances or blessings that leave you perplexed.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter to yourself in the empty room. “It’s all just in my dizzy head.”

No one answers you back here either.

It’s not until later, when you’re watching Labyrinth for the thousandth time that Arielle responds.

paintedmermaid: Sorry! Sorry! 😣 I got caught up watching a movie and thought I responded when I didn’t.

: What movie?

paintedmermaid: Labyrinth. I got lost in the Goblin King’s eyes…..and bulge.

You bark a laugh, pressing a hand to your lips before responding.

: Oh gods, me too! 😂

paintedmermaid: What’s your favorite part??

: When he says “Just fear me, love me. Do as I say and I will be your slave.”

: I mean, come on. Who could resist? Take me away, Goblin Daddy. 🤭🥴

She sends back a silly reaction gif and you chat as the rest of the movie plays. It’s nice, like you’re watching together. Pausing when she grabs a snack or when you need the bathroom. Letting your troubles drift off as the hours while away. Falling asleep with her, a long-distance sleepover.

The morning brings with it bright prospects. You ready yourself for the day, donning a cute outfit which compliments your figure and snapping a picture when the inclination arises. Before you can think, it’s sent in your chat and waiting judgement from Arielle.

Nerves prick. It’s the first time you’ve done anything like this—sent a picture to someone you’ve only talked to online. But she doesn’t even give you a moment to rue your impulsiveness.

paintedmermaid: 😍😍😍 Babe, you’re gorgeous!

The instant the response appears on your screen, you smile, beaming incandescent. You can’t stop the heat creeping up your cheeks or the flustered feeling filling your head. An elated noise rolls in your throat, clutching your phone close and breathing in the compliment.

Throughout the day, that fuzzy feeling accompanies you on your errands. Thoughts of your friend flooding your mind with warmth, though she remains fairly quiet. A busy day for her, an art show or family business. You don’t question it, knowing she needs space, too.

Standing on your dad’s doorstep, you send one last message, ‘I’m at my dad’s, pray for me. Talk to you later?’, before tucking the device into your purse. And just like that, the bubble pops. Mood souring in the span of a breath.

Another family dinner—another farce. Pretending for an evening that you can stand to be in his presence. You only hope he’s too bothered by something from work to make belittling comments.

The door swings open. An unexpected face greeting you.

“Hey, li’l dip,” Ari welcomes, ushering you into the house. Pausing for a second, closing the door, he chuckles. “Your dad didn’t tell you I’d be here, did he?”

Your head shakes, swallowing nervously as your mind volleys to the conversation Arielle continues to pursue lately—talking about Ari like he’s your perfect match, a prime opportunity, prompting you to make a move. “I’m not complaining, though,” you assure, trying not to stumble over the words, “he’s nicer when you’re around.” Your face pinches in a grimace—that was not something he needed to know.

Ari’s brow creases with concern. He sucks his teeth, ready to make a comment when your dad walks through the living room doorway, greeting you with a loose hug.

“There you are, kid,” your dad says, grabbing you by the shoulder and glancing over your outfit. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he wants to. A comment about what you’re wearing, your weight, your face—it’s always something. “I’m glad your job is keeping you well-fed.” And there he goes.

You sigh and swallow down the insult. Used to it, used to bearing it for the sake of civility. “Is Candace in the kitchen?” you ask, avoiding the jab and stepping away from the men.

Your feet find their hasty escape, shaking your head at the hurt squeezing your heart. Terse words follow you down the hall, a discussion you’re glad you can’t hear.

Dinner passes in bout of awkward conversation. Ari carries most of it. Your dad complains about his job in return—a reprieve from his usual tactics of deprecation. Candace keeps to her typical inclination, saying nothing unless spoken to directly. You do the same until dinner ends, pushing food around your plate and trying to make yourself as small as possible.

With nothing more to eat, or say, you help clean up. Taking their plates and your own, escaping into the safety of the kitchen. It’s easier to breathe away from them. Taking a moment to center yourself, chatter reaches your ears from the other room. Your absence enough to alleviate the tension between them. With an incredulous scoff, you open the dishwasher, ready to stack in the plates and cutlery.

“Just wash them and put them away,” your dad instructs, sauntering into the kitchen with his hands shoved in his pockets. “We’ll be off in the Bahamas for a week, so no one else will be here to take care of them.”

The dishes clink. Your hands slipping on their slick surfaces. “When were you going to tell me?”

“I just did,” your dad dismisses. Breezing away like he does, letting you catch only the slightest glimpse of his eyes rolling.

You’re not upset. Not really. It’s a reprieve, actually. Not to have to cater to your dad’s incessant need for familial validation for a whole week. Still, you curse and shut the machine before letting the sink run to heat up the water.

“You look like you need this now.” A hand holds out a glass of wine, your refilled one from the table. You send Ari a smile and accept his offering with a quiet thanks.

He keeps you company, drying the dishes as you wash them, placing them back in the cupboards and drawers where they belong. Each of you taking sips of your wine and making small talk to fill the silence.

It still amazes you sometimes, when Ari makes a comment or observation, how little you know about the man. But each new revelation adds another fascinating piece to the puzzle. Letting you really look at him and wonder if Arielle was really so far off-base in suggesting him as a match.

By the time all the dishes are away, you’re yawning. The hour’s late. Later than normal for your family dinners. All you want is to curl up and conk out, but you’d never do it at your dad’s house. No way, no how. Not since you moved out for college and never looked back.

Ever the gentleman, Ari offers a lift. He tucks you into his passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt and drives off. The purr of the engine and the lull of the road tugs at your eyelids until they droop. You relax against the leather seats and sleep takes you under.

It’s the perfect mix of cold and cozy when you wake up. The room temperature just right to have you burrowing beneath your blankets. You hum and burry your head under your pillow, intent on keeping the light out of your eyes.

You startle at a shift of fabric. Blankets moving by your feet, not disturbed by any movement of your own. Eyes opening, you jolt—this is not your room.

An attempt to sit up falls flat, your hands bound together which proves an unexpected impediment. The second time you move to sit, you manage to push yourself up, legs tied in the same way. The unyielding rope keeps you rather immobile, but you manage. Brushing your forehead with your tied hands and the scratch of the knots.

“Morning, li’l dip.”

You blink, gazing at Ari sitting at the foot of the bed as if nothing is amiss. Your lips part on a question, struggling to understand. This isn’t Ari’s place either—you don’t think. He lives downtown in an apartment and the window to your right shows a view of endless tall trees. Not unlike the view of your dad’s lake house. But you’re also not there.

“Where are we?” you ask, panic jittering beneath your skin.

“We’re home,” Ari coos, brushing his hand over the ropes binding your legs, carefully untying each knot along your calves. “I know we said that it would be more romantic to introduce you to this in your apartment, but you fell asleep so well with that sleeping pill in your system, I knew—”

Taken aback by his speech, your head lolls on your neck. “What?”

Ari sighs, an amused and self-deprecating sound. “I’m sorry, baby bear, I’m getting ahead of myself.” He scoots closer across the blankets. His hands reach out, cradling your face and placing a kiss on your forehead. “We talked so much about this. I can hardly contain myself with you right here.”

“What did we talk about?” you ask, wary of the answer. You lean away, hoping to release yourself from Ari’s hands, but he holds firm.

“The perfect way to take you away,” Ari explains, affection lining his face while his free hand explores lower, trailing down your body. “I know we were just talking about fantasies, but Daddy just wants to give you everything you want.” He breathes softly, his forehead leaning to rest against your temple. He hums a satisfied sound and brushes his thumb across your cheek with his other finding that warm place between your thighs.

You swallow, fear filling your head until it buzzes with static. With gritted teeth, you jerk your head away. You need space. You need clarification. You need a fucking break.

“Ari,” you snap, “what the hell are you talking about?” Your voice rises, but you can’t help it with the distress surging through you. You blink away tears along with the budding understanding of your circumstances. “I talked about that with Arielle. Were you spying on me?”

His lips tilt in a smirk, sighing with a condescending shake of his head. His fingers pet over your underwear, an attempt at soothing that sends you reeling in the opposite direction. “Oh, sweet baby, no. Nothing like that. Arielle doesn’t exist.”

His statement alone knocks the breath out of your lungs. She’s not real. It certainly doesn’t seem so. And you hadn’t told anyone else about…well, any of it. Not one word of your deepest, darkest fantasies. Not to any other soul, except her.

But the clash of sensations in your body can’t handle that truth along with the heat spreading at his intimate touch. You can’t sniff back the tears anymore, they fill your eyes until they’re blurry. Burbling pleas dribble past your lips as you attempt to wriggle away from his caress, “Please, Ari, please. Let me go, I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand—”

“Shhhh,” he hushes, wiping away your tears. His lips find your cheek, kissing your face until they meet yours. It consumes you, the way he holds your head and devours you with a fervent passion. You mewl against him, bound hands pushing at his chest, but just as before, you’re powerless against him. He pulls away, still shushing you with a brush of your lips. “You’re safe now. Just do as I say.”

He meets your eye, expectant and unrelenting. Pushing aside the gusset of your panties, he fondles the petals of your sex, sighing against you in relief. Like the whole world feels right with you in his arms. But it’s not. It’s not right. Your tears continue to well and drip down your cheeks. But he’s distracted.

It takes only half a thought for your leg to lift from the plush bedding, kicking out at his side, hoping for an opportunity to escape. But the impact only produces a muted grunt from him. A glare narrows his features, fingers squeezing at your mound until you breath hitches.

Steely determination glints in his eyes. Waiting patient for your compliance. It dawns like the sun breaking over the horizon. Details forming a picture of your demise. Ari’s pastime as a hobby artist. Arielle introducing herself in the chat room, striking up a friendship and consistently catching your attention with notions that were so relatable. Her inconsistent sleep schedule. The suggestions to make your move. The personal comments knowing you too well left overlooked. The feeling of being watched. The strange occurrences in your apartment. It’s been his plan from the start. You’re trapped. The fight extinguished in a second under his steadfast stare.

“That’s my good little baby,” Ari purrs at the sight of your surrender, pushing you down against the pillows and leaning in to ravish you again.

Despite every whine and whimper of weak protest, he ravages you. Taking you apart piece by piece until your conform to his perfect delusion. Left writhing against the sheets as he brings to life every fantasy that once sparked titillation. Your pleasure crashing over you in waves of rapture, leaving you breathless and shaking. Clinging to any form of reason and forced to let it flutter away each time he sets his sights on another blissful torture.

“Please,” you beg, dragging his head closer to your center with bound hands, muscles aching. “No more, please.”

He hums against you, sending a shiver of acute ecstasy racing up your spine. “Daddy’s not done yet, li’l dip,” he grunts, voice gravelly and dipped in desire.

Twice, he’s taken you with his tongue, licking your cunt with unrestrained longing until you’re sent careening over the edge. In between only a breath before he sheathed himself within you, stretching you wide over his girth and leaving your legs shaking. Filling you to the brim and painting you white with his cum. He moans and feasts on you now, the mix of your essence and his coating his tongue before he crowds over you and captures you in a kiss.

His cock twitches against your thigh, an omen of his tireless interest. And of your ruin.

But he remains attached to your lips, licking into your mouth and swallowing each sound that escapes your throat. Murmured and distorted by the pleasure he plucks from your reluctant body. His fingers descend in place of his mouth, teasing your clit and plunging into your cunt. Your walls flutter around the intrusion, a gasp consumed by his greedy lips.

Your mind unfetters, lost to this man’s mission of destruction. Ready to concede every thought and thirst to his skilled hands.

“Say it, baby. Just like we talked about,” he prompts, kissing across your cheek toward your throat, nibbling on your pulse point until your eyes roll in your skull. “Tell Daddy how much you love him.” The words, definitive and commanding, ooze with his desperation. His fingers accompanying that concealed plea with enthusiastic effort, finding that delicious spot inside you that shoots stars behind your eyelids.

Your head shakes, tears and sweat dripping. Desperate to maintain that one last tether to reality. But Ari’s unrelenting, his cock once again hard and replacing his fingers with a mind-altering plunge. Your lips gape open on silent keen, praying for sanity as it drips away.

“Say it,” he commands again, words lifted with his wildness. “Been waiting too long, so say it.” His teeth sink into your flesh, a pain complementing the overwhelming pleasure and ensnaring your senses.

“Daddy!” you gasp, the word punched from deep inside you by a brutal thrust of his hips. A whine rolls low in your throat, the stroke of him inside you scrambling any thoughts that form. “Please.” The plea goes unheeded, his hand cradling your throat and leveling your hazy gaze with his own.

“Just say it, sweet li’l dip,” Ari coos, a promise shining bright in the azure of his eyes. His voice drops to a husky whisper. “Just say it.”

“I—” You swallow a moan and blink back tears. “I love you, Daddy.”

He smiles, wide and bright, growling and crowding you with his body. His hips continue their motion, thrusting unrestrained and accelerating. Chasing his high as his hand snakes down your body to play with your oversensitive bundle of nerves.

And as another wave crests, you’re washed away by euphoria, left drifting in Ari’s arms and feeling the warmth of him coating you again.

“Just like that,” he praises with a tender kiss to your cheek. “Absolutely perfect.”

As he bundles you in his arms, wrapping tight around you, you sniff back your tears and dry your eyes. Try to center yourself in this twisted world of devotion and devastation with the soft brush of his breath against your neck. After all, it’s everything you ever wished for.

#ari levinson x reader #ari levinson #female reader #dark #dark fic #modern au #tw non con #non con #smut #yandere vibes #18+#minors dni #attic wives anonymous

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