#this was purely written for my own gratification

[chvoswxtch]

like a prayer

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: you want matt for dessert.

warnings: swearing, explicit sexual content (minors dni)

a/n: I haven't written for our favorite dumbass in awhile, and after finishing another rewatch of dd, he was heavy on the brain (pun intended). this song came on the other day and I immediately thought of matty, so here we are.

word count: 1k

i’m down on my knees / i can take you there

Matt hadn’t even had a chance to shut the front door to his apartment behind himself before you were pushing him up against the wall, claiming his mouth in a deeply sensual kiss, blindly fumbling with the buckle of his belt. His cane slipped from his right hand, falling to the floor with a loud clatter that echoed in his silent apartment, and the dessert you’d gotten to go was also long forgotten, haphazardly tossed onto the side table in the entryway so Matt’s hands could find their home on your waist instead.

Before Matt’s brain could even catch up to what was happening, you’d pushed his pants and briefs halfway down his muscular thighs and sank down to your knees below him. The second the warmth of your mouth enveloped the sensitive head of his cock, Matt’s jaw went slack, and his head fell back against the wall behind him with a soft thud.

Instantly, every single one of his senses was completely overwhelmed. Your soft hands grasped onto his thighs and he shivered feeling a chilled raindrop that had been lingering on your knuckle slip down onto his heated skin. The bold scent of espresso in the tiramisu that had been abandoned on the side table was overpowered by the fragrance of arousal seeping through the thin cotton material of your panties. That combined with the aroma of your warm spicy perfume intermingled with remnants of fresh rain, and the natural scent of your skin that was just uniquely you, was knocking Matt out of equilibrium.

Matt’s fingers slipped into your roots, tangling into your tresses to give them a gentle tug while a soft grunt tore from his throat. Your tongue felt like velvet gliding along the underside of his cock, flicking over a pulsating vein, swirling around the tip in a slow and seductive manner. Matt was a giver, but God, so were you. The way you took your time and savored the taste of him and the feeling of his heavy cock against your eager tongue was torturous in the most tantalizing way. Your mouth was just as warm and wet as your cunt, and sometimes Matt struggled to decide which one he preferred being inside of.

He couldn’t stop himself from tenuously shifting his hips forward, slipping a few more inches of himself past your welcoming lips. The way you moaned around him had him shuddering, and he whimpered at the way the vibrations of your own pleasure traveled throughout his entire nervous system, causing his toes to curl in his shoes. He gripped harder at your roots, earning another erotic moan from deep within your chest, and even though Catholic guilt was practically embedded in his DNA, the raw hedonistic desire he felt was far more powerful, and you didn’t seem to mind that he was taking over to subtly fuck your mouth. 

God, your mouth felt like pure heaven. Matt knew he didn’t deserve to be let through the pearly gates of your soft lips. He was a sinner, and he didn’t deserve to be blessed and absolved by the saliva coating his cock and dribbling down your chin. Only an angel as sweet as you would welcome the Devil somewhere he had been banished from. Matt’s moans were growing in volume the closer he got to gratification. He was being selfish, God he was being so fucking selfish right now, taking complete advantage of your selflessness, but your pussy was practically dripping onto the floorboards beneath you, and he could taste just how much you enjoyed having his cock in your mouth on his own tongue. 

You wanted this. You wanted him. And Matt couldn’t deny you if he tried. If you wanted the moon and Saturn, and every single star in the sky, he’d find a way to get them for you. 

Matt’s mind was blank. He couldn’t hear anything but the sound of his own labored breathing and racing heartbeat, your soft moans of raw enjoyment, and the way the material of your soaked panties rubbed along your wet folds when you shuffled closer on your knees. Feeling his tip reach the back of your throat and your nose flush against his pubic bone, he began to recite a prayer of your name, loud enough for the entire building to hear. The muscles in his lower abdomen tightened and contracted, and if the wall behind him hadn’t been supporting the burden of his body weight, he would’ve collapsed and joined you on his own knees right then.

His hips stuttered as wave after wave of his gratitude coated the back of your throat, which you were all too eager to welcome, swallowing every drop of his generous offering. Matt let go of your hair, opting to hold the back of your head gently instead, using you as an anchor to tether himself to avoid getting lost in sensory overload. He let out a desperate whimper when your warm mouth escaped him, exposing his softened cock to the drastic change in temperature in his apartment that had goosebumps spreading along his bare flesh. He was panting heavily, like he’d been trapped under a current and had finally breached the surface in search of oxygen.

With his senses so overwhelmed, he didn’t notice that you’d risen from your knees, and his body jolted in surprise when he felt your soft hands caressing his scruffy cheeks. He immediately encircled his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, burying his face into your neck to inhale your scent deeply. He needed to ground himself. He needed you. A soft noise of appreciation sounded in the back of his throat when your fingers slipped into his hair, your nails faintly scratching at his scalp in a way that had him faintly moaning into the juncture of your neck where your throat met your collarbone. Your breath was warm against the shell of his ear, and despite how heated his skin was at the moment, your sultry whisper sent a shiver down his spine.

“Ready for dessert now, baby?”

tags: @yarrystyleeza @little-miss-dilf-lover  @avengerstower-houseplant @mars-rants-a-lot @topperthornton @hailey-murdock @neverlandcity @charmedkim @queenofthenoobs @stilldreaming666 @mattymurdock1021 @bubuslutty @ninejloveb0t @purrrfect @pennylovey @firesunflamed @oscarisaacsleftknee @ameliaswife @Vane28282 @kmc1989 @messymissy @dark-academia-slut @strawberry1042 @utterlynuts @starsm00n @mentallyunstablebish @spiritofthewriter @merleisapartygod @powellssaturn @geeksareunique @urlocalgeek

#matt murdock #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x female reader #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x f!reader #matt murdock blurb #matt murdock smut #daredevil #daredevil blurb #daredevil smut

[merakiui]

WAAA MERA I LOVE MONOPS'S REFLECTION SO MUCHHHH

im obsessed with the way you portrayed jade in the story. like its not everyday that i get to see him written in a way that totally doesnt hide his insanity at all. reading monops's reflection was just so <33 aaa tysm for writing smth so amazing!!!

you mentioned before that monops!jade is very "rotten girl grotesque romance", and i totally agree, but i was actually reminded of another old yandere vocaloid song when i read the fic! idk if you know it, but its called "pure love restraint". its a really good song hehe, you should totally check it out if you dont already know it!

oh also speaking of songs, i recently started listening to loveit? by biz since you mentioned it a while ago, and i love the song so much >< do you happen to have any other song recommendations because clearly you have great taste in music~

also as a final note, i cant wait for tmdg hehe 👉👈

-kanata <3

AAAAA THANK YOU!!!!! >w< I'm so happy you enjoyed Monops's Reflection!!!! Jade is so wildly deranged in that fic. He truly is the embodiment of the harsh, brutal depths he hails from. ;;;; seeing Reader in the storage closet with Floyd pushed him over the edge he'd been teetering on for so long now. T^T he's far surpassed the point of no return. I had so much fun finishing this fic and portraying Jade in such a terrifying manner. And poor Reader had no idea what hid behind that seemingly pleasant smile of his until it was too late...

There are so many layers to Monops!Jade. How he gets so disgusted at the sight and thought of you with anyone else. How it's not really sexual gratification he's after; he's just chasing some thrill he's yet to figure out in its entirety, which is why he doesn't touch you at all during the non-con scene. Because it's not your pleasure he cares about; he could care less whether you feel good or not. How his sanity is so thin and threadbare that it's hardly there at all. How he fails to recognize that, despite the similarities he shares with Floyd, he's still his own person, still different, but not different enough for you to look his way, apparently. And then there's the meaning of Monops, which is a "one-eyed creature." >:D aaaaa he's truly the worst.

OOOOO "true love restraint"!!!!!!! I love that song!!! That song definitely has the vibes that Monops!Jade exudes!! And I'm happy you enjoyed listening to "loveit." :D it's a very good song, but then all of biz's songs are amazing!!!

>:) I always have song recommendations to share!! I'll list a few of my favorite (lesser known) Vocaloid songs with dark undertones/stories below, but if there's any specific genre you'd like recs for please let me know!!!

✧ insanity blue (all of kashii moimi's songs are fantastic!!! i recommend them, but this one is my all-time favorite hehe)

✧ wolfism (there's also a jade utau cover of this song. <3 both are very good.)

✧ go to daitokai (the lyrics for this one are very nsfw, but this song is very catchy.)

✧ biohazard (the original is very good, but i love the sonika cover so much!!)

✧ distortion love (this piko cover is everything. <3)

✧ ◇◇ (i love this song and the songs that are similar to [redacted]'s style. i'm not sure if you know of these style of utau songs (the "no title" songs), but in 2020 they became especially popular and a lot of people online began to call it a secret cult of sorts, where you couldn't search these videos normally because they didn't have a title to search for, so instead the videos would find you.)

✧ lamprey hole (i love this song forever!!!!!)

✧ meiro (it's so so good!!!)

✧ no title (this song is a banger!!!!!!!!! it got me through quarantine as did all the other no title songs and tributes. :D)

I will stop here or else the list will go on endlessly, but if you ever wish to hear new music I will be happy to share some recommendations!!! Also, thank you for looking forward to tmdg!!!!! <3 it grows closer to completion with every passing day!!!!

#twisted chit chat #kanatajelly

[lightdancer1]

I mean if we really want to go there

Canon makes a single exception for 'Zuko the true root of all morality and being nice to Zuko makes you too pure and perfect and good for this world.' That would be the point where his little sister overheard his father and his grandfather plotting his murder, warned him, warned his mother, and saved his life.

She is given a perfect license to kill him with the full sanction of her state and culture, brings him back in honor. She is rewarded for this with the loss of her friendship, her family, and her sanity.

Anyone with a halfway functional logical approach, post recovery to the breakdown, would reason that the one thing not to do under any circumstances is to repeat something that backfires on them this badly, in this specific way.

I do not understand how ATLA fanon convinced itself Azulon, the guy who perpetrated a second genocide, was just bluffing on the 'kill the kid' bit. The canon openly shows that he wasn't in the show. For the sake of her brother his sister saves his life and the comics demonize her and the show demonizes her for the heinous offense of......not letting daddy and grandpa kill her brother.

The second time she helps him, it goes from bad to worse.

Any post-canon Azula written like an actual human being would go full Diogenes and let Zuko alone to the mess he inherited and have a very deep fear that doing anything good for Zuko from past escalation would end in him rewarding her with actual death because how dare she do anything for him at all.

That is the logic of a show and a fanon where an empire unleashes a century of genocidal war but the true evil is not the army on the speartip of the genocide, nor the autocrats who set all this into motion and run it for all the same reasons as their real life counterparts...but instead it's a 14 year old who was mean to her brother a few times and halfway killed a physical god who got better.

So you tell me, why would anyone halfway human or logical, let alone fully so, operate on that basis postwar to go 'doing nice things for my brother has worked out so well for me before that clearly I should do more of it'.

Zuko has plenty of valid reasons to dislike Azula but she wasn't punished for any of those reasons, she was punished for DOING GOOD THINGS for him. Twice. That would be the major barrier to any postwar reconciliation and as written in the show, let alone the comics, it is by design nearly insuperable unless Zuko somehow finds in himself a self-awareness that his youth and reality rewarding him at every possible level and evading any actual facing of his own bad actions makes, shall we say, somewhat unlikely.

Autocrats who take thrones as teenagers and got away with attempted murder do not learn from this that this is bad, and they are surrounded by courtiers and the trappings of power in a way that would be hard to resist. The basis from here of 'family reconciliation' runs very hard into Zuko's hunger for throne and power in the actuals how, and it is something that would only change if given a sufficiently big hammer.

And that, in short, is why my post-canon scenarios have his rule of the Fire Nation blow up in his face in a decade as he's sixteen at the time he takes power and facing a situation an omniscient deity would find challenging and he's.....Zuko. Literally nothing about that postwar situation is sustainable and the way it would be all too probable to explode in everyone's faces would finally force Zuko to realize there is more to the universe than his own personal self-gratification and to examine everything canon shied away from because the ball of rage and resentment has become a singularity drowning the entire series in a paen to the redditbro mindset.

#avatar: the last airbender #zuko #man am i on a rant roll today #azula #ATLA canon has made very bad choices #its continuations have backed itself into a corner of being unable to admit they exist #if the characters are written as human that postwar 'happy ending' blows up in ten to twenty years max #teenagers picking apart the legacy of 100 years of war are guaranteed to fail #the consequences of that failure would be bloody #100 years of war leave plenty of angry soldiers willing to join a variety of extremist movements #these are the stories they could have told #instead you get a dollar store Batman tale with Azula as a poor man's Ra's Al Ghul meets the Joker

[souverian-are-we]

so. i bullied my actual real-life bestie (@nrivanwrites/@birdfrenchforbird) into writing stranger things fanfiction purely for my own gratification, and goddamn, it's so good. please read it.

picture this: renaissance festival, ronance, stonathan, lumax, the most epic arcs for robin and lucas, cult stuff, shenanigans, and so much more.

they are an incredibly talented author, so getting them to write this is the ultimate win for me. we've been teeheeing and hahaing about this fic for weeks now. it is so well-written, and the plot is going to go so hard. just trust me on this one guys.

[gggoldfinch]

Do you have any tips for fic writers?

Sure! Idk how good or helpful they'll be but I can give it a shot lmao...

Writing Experience: if you're an inexperienced writer, it would benefit you greatly (even outside of fic-writing) to learn how to properly construct writing pieces. Looking into things like proper punctuation, grammar, spelling, etc. will undoubtedly make writing more enjoyable for you and the reader. There's no better feeling than when a piece flows super nicely, even if researching the oxford comma and searching up countless synonyms can be boring asf.

Pace yourself: don't force yourself to write if you're not feeling it— that'll only make you stressed and your piece feel unsatisfactory. I've tried to force myself to continue a piece and ended up making it worse, so I def recommend taking breaks when needed, no matter how long. Falling out of love with fandoms happens, and it's okay to give up on wip pieces if they don't make you happy anymore.

You're the audience: fic itself is inherently self-indulgent, so treat it like such! If you want to read something specific, then write it! If you want the MC to be just like you, then do it! It doesn't matter what other people's opinions are because you're writing to make yourself happy above all else (I always have to remind myself of this one).

Publishing: you don't have to publish everything you write— in fact you don't have to publish anything you write! Believe it or not most of the fics I've written have and will never see the light of day, purely because they're for my own self-gratification (or because I wrote them at 17 and they're horrible). Again this circles back to writing for yourself as the audience.

#ask #goldfinch writes #fanfiction

[sapphires-and-gold-fics]

Pssst… I’ve got a secret for WIP writers. If you haven’t or don’t intend to finish a story then don’t publish it in a public forum 🤬 I understand that people write for themselves and for the process or whatever but once it published other people become invested and it’s just selfish to publish and not finish - who are you GRR Martin 🤬🤬🤬🤬

This statement is really lacking empathy. Let’s talk about it. I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience but I can definitely speak to mine. And let me start by saying this:

If you were invested, just imagine how heartbroken the writer is when they can’t see their story to its end.

I am very guilty of having left stories unfinished for a while, and I’m still going back to them. Why?

I’ll talk first about posting publicly before a story is done:

In 2019, when season 8 of GOT was winding down, things got real dark real fast. I wrote purely for myself as an exercise to get out some feelings. I wrote two depressing one-shots as a way of processing my grief. It worked. A couple people read them. Almost no one commented. Didn’t matter. I wasn’t writing for anyone else. And then, like many many many people, I started writing as a way to work out how it could have been.

And once I started it was very hard to stop. I hyper fixated on getting the story in my head into words and into written text. At the same time, a community was forming as a kind of group therapy for what we had all just been subject to. And something that is highly valued in this community is ideas, stories, ways to escape the reality of what we were served. We were protesting by creating that which the characters deserved. A lot of people were looking for an outlet. So all the stories got read. Views were high. Comments were high. Discourse was high. There was immediate gratification in posting an update because there was always someone waiting for it. I lost a lot of sleep those first few months. I would write until 5am, sleep a few hours, then get up and head for work. And even heading to work I would be on the subway typing the next phases of the story into my Notes app. And when I got home at night I would transcribe that, and work on it til 5am, on and on and on. I wrote almost non-stop from May 2019-January 2020.

Now let’s talk investment:

It is easy to keep writing and writing when the support is there for it. It is much harder when things fall apart. It is also the nature of fanfiction to involve a certain level of audience participation. Not everyone has a beta reader. Some of us rely on an audience to help determine whether the story is even viable enough to pursue. And the truth is: people have moved on.

We’re currently on year three of a global pandemic that has sapped my willingness to exist, let alone maintain the stamina that the community supported. And now that that community imploded, regrouped, fell apart again, and has mostly moved on, the demand and encouragement and feedback just wasn’t there. It’s hard enough, even with a subject that one loves immensely, to keep writing when you can barely get out of bed in the morning, and you’re not sure anyone else can either.

Add to that the fact that the US has been in the midst of a domestic cold war for the last 6 years. It’s hard, especially with something you are as emotionally invested in as I am in Brienne & Jaime, to allocate the necessary mental and emotional resources to your stories when people are getting assaulted or even assassinated for protesting injustice. How can one compete with that? How can one stand it?

I’ve started going back to my unfinished work because I really hated that I had left them alone. But I’m not doing it for likes or comments or reblogs or really for the community at all, it just happens to already exist there. Do I love that people are finding it or coming back to it? Absolutely. Do I love that people are commenting on it and providing some response so that I can synthesize that data into my own nexts steps? 100%. But now that we are in a kind of post-communal stage, do I need their interaction? It’s nice - gratifying, even - to be able to touch base with readers who enjoyed your work back when you really hit your stride, and it’s great to feel like your stories mean something to someone who maybe feels the same way you do three years after it all ended. But I can say for certain that I’m doing this just for me and for the characters.

Respectfully, writers don’t owe you anything.

I value what I owe to myself higher than any interaction over a fic.

AO3 is free, both in production and consumption.

My writing is my art and I take great pride in it. I would rather sit on it and not finish it until a year later than publish an update that is unworthy either because I rushed to meet the demand of the people, or because I did not take the time to allow my experiences, taste, or abilities room to grow.

Take my current WIP - Forget MeNot, where Game of Thrones meets Sense & Sensibility:

When I started writing that story in 2019, I was on the cusp of starting my co-authored work Yours Before I Knew, another GOT/Austen piece. I might have held off and focused on FMN for the bulk of that time, but my co-writer was raring to go and that pushed me to be a better writer. Mentally I was exactly where I needed to be for that project. And then YBIK took over my life in great ways. And then I was exhausted when that story was done. And then I picked up FMN again temporarily but, by then, we were already in COVID Land and things were weird.

If I had tried in 2020 to finish FMN, it would be utter trash. Someone would enjoy it maybe, but it would have none of the beauty and complexity that I, writing now from 2022, have been able to develop. Even if no one else ever saw it, it’s tickling my brain in the best ways and I am so glad that I waited.

I love that I’m able to come back to these characters and love them in the way they deserve, and not the ways they would have been sketched by the 2020 version of me. I honor 2019/2020 me in picking up where she left off, but I don’t do it for the readers or the hype.

Maybe one day we’ll get TWOW and maybe we won’t. It’s always summer in the songs, and maybe all we’ll ever have is the fics that make it so. Honestly, I’d be okay with that.

So listen, the next time you run across an unfinished work that you love and you’re upset that it’s incomplete, just know that the writer once loved it even more than you do, and just maybe they determined that they loved it too much to ruin it.

#braime #straight outta ao3 #q&a #fan fiction #lol remember when the Oathkeeper mods sabotaged their own server #covid 19 #jenny would twerk with her ghosts #the winds of winter #grrm

[bananami]

flirting with the clone troopers

I got bored and wrote a thing. Please enjoy my short little drabble on what flirting with the clone troopers would be like. It’s trash but it’s my trash <3

masterlist

tagged: @morganas-pendragons​​, @daylightanakin​

Obi-Wan had playfully labeled you a menace to the GAR. You didn’t blame him, but you wanted to throw it back in his face that he was just as bad as you were. The only difference was that you seemed unable to differentiate when it was entirely appropriate to be the outright flirt that you were.

In front of the other Generals in the middle of a briefing? Perfect time to tell Commander Neyo how great his thighs looked in that kama.

On the field in the heat of battle watching troopers toss spears literally through people? “Well now Captain Rex, what mighty strong arms you have.” *wink wink nudge nudge*

One time you and Commander Fox had been force thrown across a room only for you to land on top of him and it just slipped out naturally: “you know, all the times I’ve thought about being in this exact position with you, I never imagined it starting out like this.” He plays off the choking sound he makes as being injured from the hit you two just took.

Domino Squad are by far the most fun to flirt with because they don’t hesitate in the slightest to flirt right back.

Fives has got to be the worst of them all.

Seriously he has zero game but all the confidence of a man who does.

You absolutely love it.

Even when you’re injured and Kix is trying to stitch you up you can’t seem to hold yourself back.

“Alright General, lay down and let me work my magic-” “Kix, how unprofessional of you! And right here, in front of the others?” Anakin has never facepalmed so hard in his life. Kix’s face has never looked so red. You’ve never laughed so hard. It gets worse.

“I- ugh- you’re gonna need to- I need-” “Use your words Kix, c’mon man I’m bleeding out here.” That was a lie, but the gash on the inside of your thigh was pretty gross looking. “I need to be in between your legs.” You comply with ease and put on a shit-eating grin. “I hope you know I’ve dreamt about you saying those exact words- OW, Kix be gentle!”

The responses you get from the clones vary. Some of them openly flirt back, others get extremely flustered which is sweet to watch.

One time you were at 79’s hanging out with the 212th when some of the newer troopers walked in with the 501st and you couldn’t restrain yourself from sauntering on over. “How’s your night going boys, why don’t you introduce me to the shinies?”

Fives smirks and throws Tup into the deep end on this one. You reach up and tug at the troopers long hair just slightly, which makes him blush hardcore. “Go easy on him, love, you’re gonna give the poor guy a heart attack.” “I promise I’ll be gentle. Unless of course you ask me not to be.” Fives rolls his eyes and tells Tup not to take you too seriously and that you’re like this with all the troopers.

He was right, of course.

Some of them genuinely make your heart melt though.

For instance, Echo is a sweetheart. It doesn’t matter what you throw at him.

“Well now, don’t you look handsome in your new arc trooper armor.” “Nothing compared to how gorgeous you look every day, darling.”

“Keep saying things like that and you’re gonna make me fall in love, Echo.” “I could never be worthy of you, beautiful.”

And some, like Jesse, are just too smooth. It's genuinely impressive.

“What’s cooking good looking?” “Me for you tonight, what do you say doll?” “Please, you couldn’t handle me.” “Babe, I don’t think anyone could, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to try.” You nearly blushed at that one.

One time you fell over and he caught you before you could hit the ground and both you minds went to the same place. “Falling for me, cyare?” “What can I say, you’ve got me all tripped up.”

Some of them even surprised you.

Like Crosshair, from the self proclaimed bad batch. Who during a mission actually gave you a run for your credits.

“How am I looking from up there, Cross?” “Oh, just stunning, love.” “Even all sweaty and gross from fighting all these clankers?” “You kidding? I think you look better than ever like this.” “Well aren’t you just such a flirt.” A shot rings next to your ear, the droid behind you falling to the ground before it could get to you. “Pot. Kettle.”

Master Windu never failed to remind you of how inappropriate it was for you to say such things in public. Master Yoda and Plo just laughed.

Secretly Master Plo was hoping one day Wolffe would work up the nerve to do anything but stutter an incomprehensible response but the clone commander was a wreck the second you open your mouth.

Seriously Wolffe cannot flirt, he has no idea what to do or say back.  It’s adorable.

Like the time you asked him “is this seat taken?” and pointed at his lap with a sly smirk on your face. He wanted to make a witty comment back but all that came out was “wha-huh-uhm-” and you just chuckled, telling him you were just joking before sitting down next to him.

Master Plo had to step out of the room to laugh for a minute.

Sometimes you were stationed to protect the Chancellor which meant spending a lot of time with the Coruscant Guard. They were relentless in their flirtations, by far the most charming clones you’d ever met. Even Commander Fox had his moments, when he wasn’t being so serious.

Hound was probably the worst of the worst. He had you laughing so hard you at times that it physically hurt.

At one point you’d been reamed out by the Chancellor and retreated into your head. Hound noticed, and with the most serious expression, took your face in between his hands and in the most serious voice he could muster said: “I will kill him for you my sweet angel, just give me the word.”

Fox’s eyes widen and he’s got a playful glare on his face, not as upset at that statement as you thought he’d be, “Hound, you can’t -”

Hound’s eyes don’t leave yours, “I’ll kill him too.”

“hOUND”

And lets not get started on when you and Obi-Wan were sent on missions together.

“Cody, darling, you wouldn’t happen to have the time would you?”

“Cody, sweetheart, you’re doing such a wonderful job at killing those clankers!”

“Cody, love, your butt looks fantastic in that armor-”

“You can’t just say that over public comms!”

“You were thinking it, I was just saying it out loud, Obi-Wan!”

And you’re all time favorite: “Cody, that armor looks great on you, you know where it would look better? On the floor of Obi-Wan’s room.” “Are you hitting on Cody for me?”

Some of the clones had even placed bets and wagers on who could get you to slip up and become flustered.

You definitely appreciated the attempts.

Some of them had definitely come close though.

Like Commander Doom, who you danced with at 79s one night and had to run into the bathroom to splash some water on your face because holy kriff where did that man learn that kind of language. It was actually kind of impressive. And no you would absolutely not be repeating it to anyone except maybe to Obi-Wan over tea the next day in the confines of his room where no one else could hear either of you gossiping.

Or Sergeant Hunter of the 99th, who met your quips line for line. You didn’t know how but you were pretty sure he knew exactly what to say to make you almost blush.

“You can’t just take out an entire battalion of clankers on your own and not expect me to fall in love with you.” “That’s the goal, Sarge. How’d you know I was just trying to impress you?” “Call it a sixth sense.” “You think the force is trying to tell us something?” “I don’t need to force to tell me how irresistible you are.” “Be still my beating heart.”

And as much as it irritated the other General’s of the GAR, the clones genuinely appreciated the sense of normalcy it gave them. Sure it was all jokes but most spent so much time fighting that the brief moments of flirtation were a distraction from the shit show going on around them.

And besides, it wasn’t your fault they were so damn good looking.

#Clone Troopers #arc trooper fives #clone trooper echo #commander fox #Commander Wolffe #captain rex #bad batch #hunter bad batch #crosshair #x reader #codywan #just want a clone trooper boyfriend to flirt with #this was purely written for my own gratification #clone trooper jesse #star wars #the clone wars #clone trooper x reader #clones x reader #clone troopers x reader #sw x reader #tcw x reader

[miss-smutty]

The Room

A/N- This is inspired by the pics of Chris braiding a ponys hair that @swaggysposts tagged me in and fed my muse! It's just pure filth but the Dom/sub dynamic is my absolute fave! 🥵🥵

Summary- You'd pissed Chris off somehow and knew he was going to make you pay, knew he would make sure you had no doubts that you were solely his.

Word count- 2.5K

Pairing- Dom!Chris Hemsworth X Sub!F!Reader

Warnings- Just pure filth, Bondage, rough sex, swearing

18+ only!!

Disclaimer: This is an entire work of fiction/AU and has no affiliation to real life what so ever! This is a fictional story about fictional characters who happen to share names and faces with some real people.

Posted: 14th July 2021

Taglist:-@innerpaperexpertcloud @pandaxnienke @chickensarentcheap @jjpogueprincess @longlostinanotherworld @mostly-marvel-musings

"Why aren't you speaking to me?" He faced his head purposefully towards the window, his hand grasping his thigh until his knuckles turned white. The muscles in his neck taunt against the skin as he tensed his jaw. "Have I done something wrong?" 

"You know exactly what you've done." He says through gritted teeth, finally turning around to face you. The anger flaring in his eyes, and hunger. Oh that hunger.

"I'm not speaking to you about it until we're home and you are in the room." You felt your stomach tighten, the muscles contracting of their own free will at the thought of what he had planned for you.

Seeing that hunger in his eyes you definitely weren't going to object. You'd admit that sometimes you might try and piss him off purposefully just so he would punish you but tonight you actually weren't aware of what you'd done wrong.

The room he was speaking of was your own personal room of punishment, a room of depraved sexual gratification. Thinking about it made you instantly wet, squirming on the leather seat beneath you.

Chris's eyes were drawn to your crotch, his eyes flashing with desire, watching you squirm and knowing you loved it just as much as he did. He tried to hide it, tried to keep his determined composure but you could see the lust written all over his face. His eyes alight, his tongue licking along his top lip.

The journey home took an agonisingly long time, Chris remaining silent the entire journey and you watching him with desperate need to satiate your thirst. You sat on your hands, trying to control the need to reach out and grip Chris's thick thighs, that were spread deliciously, the tight fabric of his fitted trousers straining against his crotch. Your eyes travelled higher, spying the top buttons of his shirt undone, his tie loosened, revealing his defined collar bone and prominent trapezium muscles. 

A little whimper left your mouth involuntarily, purely from the little glimmers of flesh and muscle you could see. The sight of him alone easily getting you off and he knew it. Slowly undoing a couple more buttons, so his shirt hung loosely on his smooth pecs, smirking to himself slyly as he watched you in his peripheral.

"That's not fair." You pouted, your hands twitching beneath you. The pain of pins and needles a welcome distraction.

"Life's not fair, my sweet." He ran his hand through his hair, making it messy and tousled, looking Impossibly more attractive. Your pussy couldn't take it much longer, it was throbbing tortuously and you knew this was only the beginning of his teasing.

The car pulled up outside your luxurious home, excitement pooling at your core, your pussy clenching and stomach somersaulting. A couple more minutes and the fun would begin although you knew you were going to have to wait a lot longer until you would fully feel your need to cum satisfied.

Chris stepped out of the car, bending low to fit his tall frame through the door of the low set cab, you took your chance to ogle the way his trousers stretched around his tight, round ass. Biting on to your bottom lip as hard as possible to stop yourself from being vocal, knowing if you showed any signs of gratification before he gave you permission, he would tease you for even longer.

He opened the door for you, his face set straight, showing no emotion. His eyes said everything that needed to be said when you stepped out of the car, making sure to open your legs so he could see you were wearing no underwear.

Chris took your hand, gripping it tightly, taking out his frustrations, his face still set sternly. "What have I told you about wearing no underwear in public?" He hissed, making you smile to yourself, exactly the reaction you were hoping for.

He pushed you up against the wall when you were inside and out of view, lifting your dress up to your waist hurriedly. "This is mine and mine only." He said through gritted teeth, clasping his large hand around your bare cunt, you whimpered at the contact, a throaty moan groaning through you. "Who's is it?" He asked.

"Yours." You whined breathily. "All yours." 

He grunted a deep sound of satisfaction before releasing his grip on you, leaving your legs weak, your body wanting. "Good girl." slapping your bare ass making it jiggle with the impact, burning with lustrous pain. "Now go and wait for me in The Room." 

You didn't need to be told twice, adrenaline shooting through your body as you took the stairs two at a time, almost tripping in your haste when you reached the top. You unlocked The Room, memories flashing through your mind of the many ways Chris had pleasured you in here. You thought it impossible for him to find new ways to make you scream, him surprising you every time with another depraved way of making you cum.

You never thought you'd end up like this, shit you didn't even know Chris was like this when you first got together, now two years later you were just as much a sadist as him. The thought of being his submissive made your pussy burn with desire, your mind pooling with ecstacy, your inner thigh soaking wet.

You took off your dress, kneeling down on the ground with your back to the door, knowing how much it would please him to find you in this position. 

You sat and waited but either time was passing really slow or Chris was making you wait longer on purpose, your knees were aching from the wooden floorboards. Your back starting to slump forwards from the poker straight position you were in and then you heard the door handle. Chris's bare feet padding along the wooden floor. 

You fought every fibre of being to not turn around and look at him, desperately wanting to see how sexy he looked but you knew that was against the rules. 

Exhaling sharply when Chris grabbed your hair by the base off the neck, pulling your head back to look up at him. "Now what can I do with you?" He ponders, lifting one eyebrow amusedly.

"Anything." You gulp, your spit sticking in your throat because of the tightness of his pull. "Everything." 

"Shh, you speak when I tell you to speak." 

"Yes sir." You feel his still clothed cock pressing into your shoulder blades at your words, his teeth gritting. You could see he was bare from the waist up, his perfectly tanned broad chest and the black tie he'd been wearing wrapped around one of his hands. 

He looks down on you while he braids your hair into a plait that falls down your back. His expert fingers going to work without even needing to look, you'd always wondered where he'd learned to braid hair but you'd never asked, usually distracted by what follows.

Your pussy clenched again when he pulled your braid, your head hanging back and your mouth hanging open. Excited for what was to come, when he'd be pulling on your braid while he fucked you from behind.

"You were flirting with the waiter tonight." He said as a statement rather than a question. "Right in front of me. Do you know how pissed off that made me?" You opened your mouth to speak. "Don't say anything. I haven't finished." He leaned down to whisper right into your ear. "I need you to know that you are mine and flirting with other men means you will be punished." He grasped your hair tightly against your skull causing you to gasp, the pulling making your nerve endings come alive. "Do you understand?" 

You nodded as enthusiastically as you could under his grip. You definitely hadn't been flirting, simply being friendly was more like it but you weren't about to disagree with him, not when he had you in such a vulnerable position.

You moaned when his grip on your hair released, watching him through the corner of your eye as he made his way over to the large wooden trunk in the corner of the room. Your eyes didn't leave him as he pondered over the contents of the trunk, pulling out equipment then discarding it back into the box. His eyes lit up as he turned around, a black, leather paddle slapping against his palm.

Then he disappeared behind you and all you could hear was the sound of leather slapping against skin, you heard the springs of the mattress creak as he sat on the end of the huge, four poster bed that sat in the middle of the room.

"Come and lay across my lap." You were already soaking wet, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, biting onto your bottom lip while he couldn't see your expression, too excited for what was to come.

You followed his command like the good little slut you were, laying across his solid thighs, the temptation to touch his cock was too much, it was so close. Chris knew what you were thinking and he pulled your arms behind your back, binding them with the soft satin of his tie.

Rubbing slow circles across both of your cheeks, preparing them for his onslaught. You braced yourself, closing your eyes tightly shut and pulling in your stomach muscles.

Waiting patiently for the leather to meet with your skin. He teased, as he always did, his hands caressing your ass, enjoying the feel of your round, juicy cheeks.

You wanted to scream, to exclaim your pleasure but you knew better - don't show gratification, not yet. You held it in, a small gurgle falling from your lips, your body tensing when the paddle connected with your ass, an audible slap leaving your skin stinging. But fuck did it feel good.

Chris waited for your body to relax, to uncurl from around his legs, smoothing his hand across your skin until the sting was barely noticeable. Then he moved to the other cheek. Repeating the process until you were begging him for more. Every slap against skin sent shockwaves through your body, your clit tingling with sensations. You could feel his rock hard cock, digging in to your stomach, torturing you, your fingers twitching in their binding.

"You're such a good fucking girl." He purred, still rubbing the scarlet handprints imprinted on your cheeks. "When you're not flirting with other men that is. Have you learned your lesson yet?" 

"Fuck, yes. Please Chris." You begged, tears leaving tracks down your face.

"No, no. I didn't think so." He tuts, slowly unfastening your arms, you hadn't noticed the ache in your shoulders until now.

"Sorry, Sir I mean, please Sir." You corrected yourself.

"Too late, my sweet. You still haven't learnt who you belong to. Now shhh, no more talking or I will gag you." He unhooks your bra with one hand, his fingers expertly working the clasp. "On your hands and knees." 

You crawl on to the bed, arching your back just the way he liked, desperate to please him so he'd give you his cock. He pulls off his sweats, stroking the long, thick shaft of it as he admires the view. Your ass stuck in the air, your curves accentuated, your knees together exactly how he wanted them.

He crawls behind you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into him. Pushing your head into the soft mattress so he could see your pussy stretch for him. His fingers gliding up your glistening folds "So fucking wet, always so keen." You feel his tip nudging at your opening, making you instinctively push back on to it. "I don't think you deserve my cock yet, do you?" You don't answer, too consumed with distracting yourself from the burning need that's circulating around your core.

You squeel when he pulls your braid back, pulling you up, your back arching like a bow. Finally you feel his breath tickling your neck, his lips attaching to your ear lobe, sucking on the flesh, his nose and beard tickling even more. You wince when his teeth bite into your skin, the line between pain and pleasure being exploited.

"I said, I don't think you deserve my cock yet, do you?" He whispers into your ear, his hand reaching forward to find your clit, the other still pulling your head back by your braid, keeping you in place.

"I do, please Sir, I'm yours. I won't do it again." 

Your body convulses around him as he applies pressure to your bundle of nerves, circling the spot with his fleshy finger. "Don't you dare cum, not until I say so." He whispers again, his hot breath against your ear making your legs buckle. He knows you can't stand much more but he'll continue to push you until you break.

It's fucking torture trying to distract yourself from his skillful fingers, orgasm after orgasm building without any outcome when he cruelly takes his fingers away everytime he feels your body go rigid.

"Chris I... I can't take it anymore. Please fuck me." You hear a groan deep in his throat as he tightens his grip on your hair, pulling you back until your arching just the way he wants you. Kneeling behind you when he lines himself up, the tip teasing your throbbing opening.

"Want to see that face screw as I show you what a naughty girl you've been." He licks a line up your neck to your ear, tasting the salt of your exasperation.

You moan, a sound of deep satisfaction when he finally fills your tight hole with his girthy cock. Your walls stretching around him, the length poking at your spot perfectly. You could cum straight away, as soon as he began pounding into you with all his velocity. You knew if he felt you tighten he'd pull out, you groaned, letting him hear your frustration.

"Soon, my girl, soon." He whispered, you knew he wouldn't be able to last much longer either, by the way his demeanor had changed. His frustration dissipated as he'd proved his point, his love shining through, his dominance taking a back seat. Just not entirely.

Wrapping your braid around his hand he pulled your head back further, bucking into you while he kissed your exposed neck. The sensation was too much, the way it tickled had your pussy spasming. Gripping around his cock like a vice, you could feel his cock twitching as he gave you all his length. Fucking you as hard as he could, grunting with every thrust. A deep, gutteral, animalistic groan that had your stomach in knots. 

"Cum for me, baby." He pants, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he grips his fingers tightly into your hips, thumbprints being branded into your flesh. You released around his cock, gushing so powerfully he had to force himself deeper into you before you pushed him out. One last thrust as far as he could go and he was spurting his warm cum deep into you.

#smut #chris hemsworth #chris hemsworth fanfic #chris hemsworth smut #chris hemsworth x reader #chris hemsworth x you #chris hemsworth imagine #thor #thor odinson #thor series #thor smut #thor x you #thor x reader #thor x y/n #thor x ofc #thor x oc

[myafterlifeisbetterthenyours]

OBSESSIVE STOLAS x Male Imp Pt.2

(This is a long fanfic and will consist of multiple parts. This part will have badly written smut.)

Stolas' face mmediately lit up, the owls fethers puffing up as giddiness over came him.

Grabbing your face he pulled you in for a deep kiss before turning on the spot and going over to lock the door.

Turning back to you, Stolas targeted you with a preditory gaze.

You Beckoned him to you with a lone finger, a sultry smile on your face.

Stolas chest swol with pep as he made his way to you with slow seductive steps. His highness shed his royal attire piece by piece along the way.

He stood before you, bare to the world. The sight leaves you breathless, as you stared up at him in all his natural glory its as though you were gazing up at some icon of desire.

The prince looked down at you, lust clear in his eyes as he leered himself over you.

Stolas smiled down at you, his hand coming down and slowly undoing your pants, teasingly sliding his hand into your underwear pulled out your swollen member.

The demonic prince relished having you in his grasp. Your scent, your warmth, he couldnt help himself as he leaned down and quickly engulfed your entire length.

The Prince moaned as your taste hit his tongue.

You could barely stay coherent as Stolas put all his skill into bringing you as much pleasure as possible. Absolutely entranced with your every moan and gasp.

'Stolas, aah, I'm-I'm real close.' You mewld, moments before you exploded in his mouth.

Stolas was enraptured with your taste, drinking it down like it was ambrosia.

You slid your hand down his face, basking in your all to rare afterglow. Stolas' face had never seemed so beautiful in your hazy gaze.

Sitting up, you grab Stolas by the jaw and pulled him into a kiss. Despite tasting yourself in his mouth, you didn't faulter in the kiss, pulling him deeper, pulling him back until he was practically laying on you.

Stolas quickly eclipsed your passion with his own, dominating the kiss.

You pulled stolas against you, your bodies grinding against each other.

Stolas was in absolute rapture. The feeling of you against him sent wave after wave of pleasure throughout his body with your every touch.

You pulled him closer, burrying your face in his chest fluff and taking in his scent, the act you both found extremely arousing.

Squeezing Stolas close, you prop your legs up on either side of his slender body.

Before in a quick move, you manage to flip the Demonic prince underneith you.

While initially shocked, he your ability to manhandle him so easily was quite arousing.

Looking up at you, it was his turn to be captivated by your domineering presence as you loomed over him.

Running a hand down his stomach, to rest on his thigh. Leaning down you left a trail of kisses down his neck, before whispering into his ear 'My turn~'

Without further explanation you climbed off of him.

Stolas whinned at the loss of your warmth, but his quickly perked up as he felt you slip between his thighs.

Slipping between his thighs, you come face to face with... well not what you thought a demon Prince would have.

In place of the typical male genitalia sat in its place a cloaca (Birds have them, its weird) giving him a feminine appearance at first glance.

You stood there, unsure of how to approach.

Noticing your lack of movement, Stolas sat up, finding your unsure state.

Feeling embarrassed, stolas rubbed the back of his head 'S-sorry, I... I should have told you about that. Its natural for the Ars Goetia of my family but... I understand if you dont-'

But before he could finish his thoughts you buried your face in his crotch. Stolas released a rather effeminate gasp before it was quickly morphed into a deep moan.

You were no expert in mouth-tongue oral pleasure, But you lacked in experience you more then made up for with enthusiasm and a nearly foot long tongue certainly helped.

Something Stolas greatly appreciated.

Stolas had never experienced such gratification. He hadn't received this much pleasure in years, not even Blitzy...

no, It's Blitzø now.

Not even Blitzø's usual rough and tumble style in bed could bring him this much pleasure.

Despite your crude technique, Stolas was quickly nearing climax.

You could tell Stolas was close, because his exclamations progressively became more and more vulgar, his hands coming to the back of your head.

You just focused on eliciting as much pleasure from the owl as possible. Pushing your tongue as deep as possible, Stolas cried.

His hands clasped the back of your head as gush of salty liquid. After a several moments of pressure to the back of your head stolas went limp, releasing you.

Taking a moment to catch your breath you stood up, licking your lips, giving your neck a big stretch.

Looking up, you found Stolas in a seemingly intoxicated state.

The owl laid there quietly moaning incoherent thoughts to himself.

Looking over the prince, you could help but find his dishevelled look deeply arrousing. The rugged state of his feathers across his chest were particularly appealing.

Looking down the sight of his still aroused... Princehood. The sight immediately shot a new wave of arousal south.

Looking up I found Stolas still in his little haze.

Your eyes trailed his body, something passes through your head.

An idea.

An awful idea.

A wonderful, awful idea.

Moving forward you slide your hads along his hips, before moving forward and pushing your arousal against his own. As soon as they touched Stolas' entire body froze.

Stolas slowly sat up, he loomed over you, radiating an aura of absolute dominance you would only find amongst the Ars Goetia Royalty.

You look up, meeting his domineering gaze,

his preditory crimson gaze making you feel like a mouse before a hawk.

Moving without thought you moved forwards, grinding your Imphood against his now more then eager honeypot.

The bolt of pleasure that shot through you both, caused you to moan.

Looking the Owl in the eyes, you silently asked for permission. Stolas leaning forward, laying a kiss on you lips before placing his head against your own.

A silent nod was all the answer you needed, as you wrapped your hands around his thighs and plunged forward into Stolas' warm depth.

You moaned deeply, bodies paralysed in pure pleasure.

It took a moment, but eventually you adjusted to the burning hot pleasure.

Stolas leaned back on his elbows, looking down at you he wrapped his legs around your waist. Taking this as permission, you began a slowly thrust, in and out.

You knew what Blitzø is like, he was loud, rough and unapologetic. You can only imagine he'd be the same in bed.

But it wasn't gonna be like that this time. You love Blitzø, he was a great guy and always did right by you. But afte everything Stolas went through, he deserved to feel the more intimate side of sex with someone who cared for him, and that someone was you.

You didn't rush it. In fact you took your sweet time, working into a steady pace.

You explore his body with your hands, fingers lingering on the most sensitive parts, memorizing the feeling of eqch inch of his body you could, leaving gentle kisses across his stomach and chest.

Your mind enters into an almost robotic focus, all energy dedicated purely on the singular act of bringing Stolas as much pleasure as possible.

Stolas whole body was awash with mind melting pleasure.

Stolas was in bliss.

He was so unsure of how to handle this new kind of pleasure he was receiving. Stolas had never felt this passion before.

Not even on that first night with Blitzø.

Not even when he thought Blitzø genuinely cared for him did it come close to feeling this good.

But now he knew the truth... Blitzø didn't care for him.

He just wanted his grimoire.

Blitzø didn't care for anything but himself.

But he didn't need Blitzø anymore, He had someone who loved him, now he had you...

#helluva stolas #helluva boss #x reader #headcanon #helluva boss headcanon #helluva boss x reader #stolas x reader #stolas

[asturlavi]

oh boy, do i have wonderful beast oda/odazai info for you all since this may just be my favorite chapter in all of beast. it clarified a lot about oda's state in this au, and how sad it truly is, especially with all that dazai has done to ensure that oda's safety is certain

before i start, this was initially intended to be a quirky little twitter thread that’s supposed to be kicked off with a badly drawn doodle of something meme. the thread was supposed to be about how wonderfully dumb odasaku can be and how annoyingly frustrating dazai is in the latest beast chapter... and then it slowly devolved into a crudely written essay about small discoveries i’ve made that most likely haven’t been pointed out before, so i recommend that anyone interested in either oda or odazai to check this out 

so i finally got around to reading the new beast chapter and seeing how odasaku constantly devalues himself and finds that he's lesser than the average person is… sad. its been said that him and ranpo are the stars of the ada, every mission trivial with their cooperation, and yet he doesn't see any of that. thinks he struck luck when it came to his entrance exam, which he specifies that it wasn't as a result of his own skills. his inferiority complex is embedded so deep that despite his achievements, he doesn't at all believe he has any worth as a human.

i'm just a tired, ordinary man like you could find anywhere. a third-rate detective, as unexceptional as a fallen cigarette butt on the road.

and his entrance exam was just like dazai's: the azure messenger case, which we all know wasn't at all a walk in the park. one mistake, and it would spell disaster for the city that the ada was trying to protect. no--not just the city, it would also mean the end of the ada as we know it. despite it all, he resolved it much to his own surprise, and it was all thanks to an "unexpected" gift. and that gift? who would it be other than from dazai himself? 

beast light novel ch. 3

(also, this is a shaky claim at best but I feel as if oda fully holds the capabilities to solve the case alone, but dazai knew that with odasaku's persistent feelings of self-doubt, along with his lack of some of the vivacity that dazai held to weasel his way through to information, the outcome of success wouldn’t be guaranteed. and so, dazai lent him something to ensure his success)

and yet, oda is blind to see truly how much intellect and skill he possesses. he doesn't realize how integral he was to the quest of the azure messenger, doesn't acknowledge that without him these orphans would have either slipped into a life of crime, gone to a downtrodden orphanage, or simply passed away, and he doesn't know that despite it all, he's one of the purest characters in the story, even with the darkness that will forever cling to him, a reminder of the violence that marred his past.

not to mention that oda, in one way or another, effectively analyzed the current situation that they're stuck in. he noted that if things currently go the way they're going, no matter what akutagawa achieves, him and his sister are doomed. so, oda brilliantly decided to go after the port mafia itself to prepare for this possibility, and it's nothing short of genius. and dazai plays along with this… because it is oda, after all. 

and everything dazai did, everything he sacrificed, it was all for oda.

now to the underlying tragedy of this chapter. take a look at this panel: 

ever since then, i've been making a living by solving requests that come to the detective agency.

i provide for the orphans

i drink coffee.

i gamble a bit on days off.

at night, i write a novel in the kitchen. 

that's my life.

nothing unusual, right? you'd think that odasaku was satisfied with life, since he has everything he had ever wished for. but in all actuality, he still lacks one important thing.

and that's friendship.

his words sounded so… empty. achieving ones dreams is but one aspect of life that brings one gratification, but doesn't necessarily mean it would guarantee lasting happiness. (think of famous actors or celebrities that spiral into depression even after they've achieved their dreams).

in that panel, he says he cares for the orphans, gambles, and writes alone in his spare time, but not a word of spending time with friends… something he had in the root universe, something that was lost to him in this one.

and he says this all with his face blacked out, as if he's somewhat implicitly dissatisfied (while the kid's faces are present, not at all concealed).

with dazai, he found peace in a place where peace is rare to find. They both completely put their guard down with each other around, and dazai can relax his overly speculative mind with oda. and they understood each other, a level of understanding rare to come by. dazai with his dark jokes easily flies past oda's ears because that's what they are, harmless jokes. and oda with his blunt honesty, which dazai cherishes and never prods him for it.

dazai also saw things in oda that oda was blind to. dazai saw a world of beauty in oda, the ray of light beneath a cloudy sky. he saw both intelligence and wisdom, kindness and generosity. and most of all, he trusted oda, despite dazai’s natural inclination to distrust.

and what oda saw in dazai was vulnerability. despite the front that dazai puts, he can be kind, even empathetic, when the situation calls for it. dazai once gave akutagawa a decision to turn his back against dazai’s offer to join the port mafia, when logic points to the fact that he didn't have to, but wanted to.

dazai also consistently gives atsushi words of advice and shows understanding when dazai was under no obligation to, such as atsushi facing the loss of his previous caretaker. dazai gave atsushi genuine advice, not laced with any malice or ill intent. dazai had even left atsushi to grieve alone, fully understanding that atsushi needed to pour his emotions out in private. there’s more than enough instances of dazai showing this side of himself in both the light novels and manga, but it seems to sometimes be brushed aside. even though the main cast of characters always dismissed this side of dazai, oda has always known that this side of dazai was his truest self.

oda and dazai also talked endlessly about trivial things, calling each other daily for two hours for no reason other than that they each enjoy one another's company. it's pure, wholesome love. they had a mutual trust and understanding between one another, which ango, another friend of theirs, severely lacked in his friendship with them.

oda's dream was to write, gone unfulfilled in the root universe, but he died happily knowing that the one he cares for is living in the path of light. dazai's was to find a reason to live, which he found in oda, and continues to use this as motivation long after oda passed.

in beast, dazai's dream was cut short, ultimately leading to his demise at the end. after all, his one reason to live is now robbed from him. however, oda's dreams have become a reality, but can one really say he achieved happiness? he has the orphans, his children, but they will never understand him like dazai had. he has peace, but is it the form of peace he wanted? spending time alone, on things like gambling, while endlessly mulling how he has no one to spend this time with?

and writing, his one true wish that dazai made absolutely sure to make a reality. but was it worth it, at the cost of a friend who brought happiness and reprieve when everyone else failed to?

i thought of this tale as a matter of equivalent exchange, you lose one life in exchange for another. the scales do remain somewhat balanced, but not over a matter of lives. it's over a matter of personal sacrifices, ones only known to us readers.

and i say "somewhat" because in the root universe, dazai remembered oda when he was alive, so well that dazai can recall memories to near perfection. but oda had completely forgotten dazai in beast, chasing after absent memories and deluding himself into thinking his life is perfect, while numbing himself from the aching hole of loneliness that consumes him inside.

also, oda is surely happy spending time with the children, but what about his lonesome hours? who is he going to spend that time with, in a world without dazai, the only person who understood him and his oddities?

ah, and remember this moment in the root universe? 

now, take a look at this again. no, look closer 

odasaku wasn’t merely gambling for the sake of it, he was gambling on a horse race. and before dazai was arrested in the root universe, he was seen doing just that. 

now, why would odasaku do this? he surely doesn’t seem the type to gamble away his money on something as silly as horse races, because what does someone gain while they pour their money into something so senseless? 

and the only reason i could arrive to is that dazai must have dragged him along to one. dazai is a port mafia executive, with more money than he knows what to do with and a boatload of depression. money probably disinterests him as much as life does, and he used gambling to kill two birds with one stone: ridding of money he doesn’t need, and distracting him from his boredom (and depression). 

and it doesn’t end there. remember when dazai in dead apple had visited bar lupin to pay his regards to odasaku, while reliving a pleasant memory dazai had with him? and he did this because he was preparing for a quest that may result in with the loss of his life, psyching himself up for what’s to come. this is probably bordering on speculation, but i believe that that’s precisely what he did once again in the horse races. dazai paid a visit to a place that oda and him had frequented, to prepare for another dangerous quest. 

also, note that immediately after exiting bar lupin in dead apple, dazai was confronted by ango, which kicked off the start of dazai’s plans. a similar thing happens in the manga, dazai spending time in a place that he and oda had gone to, this time the horse races, and his plan whirls into motion as jono arrests him. i think these similarities are deliberate, in order to establish their significance to dazai and oda. 

this long winded explanation’s purpose was only for me to go back to this panel once again, and say that everything oda spoke about doing, from spending time with his kids, to brewing coffee, to betting on horse races, and to writing in the kitchen, were all moments he had with dazai. 

and see that he has an extra chair that sits unused in the kitchen? at first, i thought it was there for the sake of being there. then, it slowly dawned on me that odasaku and dazai had noted in the dark era light novel that they made a habit of visiting each other, so it wouldn’t be illogical to conclude that it was a chair meant for dazai. a place where he can spend some private moments together with oda underneath the dimly lit kitchen, drinking in the scent of odasaku’s coffee and talking about things that distracts them from their troubles while odasaku whittles away at his manuscript. 

and one last thing before i end this out of sheer laziness, take a look at this photograph of oda from the final moments of the beast light novel.

as oda stated in the manga and light novel, he worked on his manuscript alone in the kitchen... but in the photograph, he wasn’t alone. he’s posing for a picture. relaxed, poised, as if entertaining the one taking the photo. and besides, wasn’t it dazai who insisted on taking photographs in bar lupin with ango and oda in dark era? he must have done the same in that very moment in the beast universe, but this time in anticipation of oda forgetting him. 

in the end, it seems oda and dazai left each other in similar ways, foolishly believing they've sacrificed their lives for each other to better the other's life, but all they did was create worlds where the feeling of happiness will be lost to both respective parties, while also resigning each other to a life of loneliness.

they've forgotten about their one happiness that stems from just being around one another, listening to the soothing tune of jazz playing softly as they talk into the night, the world lost to them as they're absorbed in one another's presence.

it seems like their story is a tragedy of what happens when you love someone too much, to the point that you delude yourself into thinking you're but a tool for their happiness, and with you gone, nothing will change.

but things did change, didn't they?

#odazai #bsd #bungo stray dogs #oda sakunosuke #osamu dazai #bsd beast #i'm never doing this again

[count-brattula]

Guts & Glory ~ A Little Nightmares FanFic

A/N: I have recently posted this on ao3, so if this intrigues you and you’d like to read more, Fox’s journey will continue on over on my AO3 account, under the same name: Guts & Glory. I’d greatly appreciate any criticism offered - I haven’t written fan content in years.

TW: dark themes, heavy content, child characters, starvation, horror, violence, child death, cannibalism, proceed with caution

~~~

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back… and… forth.

Sleeping on a ship was impossible. And it wasn’t just the constant rocking and lack of stability (after a while, you get used to it). The mattresses were lumpy and provided nothing but discomfort, and, like most things on the Maw, reeked of death and urine. Who knows how many children had accidents in the very sheets Fox slept in, what with the Janitor’s frequent visits during witching hour and all? There was no light in the dormitory, and the cots were far too big for children their size, they seemed less welcoming and more intimidating. It almost seemed like the children were being mocked, tempting them – daring them, even – to try and hide under their covers. No matter how big the bed, the monsters would always find you. And there was always plenty of room underneath the bed for them, too.

Fox dared not turn over to try and ease her discomfort, lest the Janitor heard and came hunting. She was older than the other children, she was getting smarter, and her captors certainly knew that. Her age made her more of a threat to the monsters of the Maw, in turn making the target on her back bigger. The Janitor would be itching for a chance to mummify her body and send it off to the chefs. So, she remained still, rocking from one side to the other, barely able to see what was in front of her, and tormented by the grumbling sounds emitting from the ravenous stomachs of young children surrounding her. Most of the kids couldn’t even bring themselves to breathe out of pure fear, it was ironic how their stomachs betrayed them.

The lack of food floated back to Fox’s mind, and she remembered how many of her companions were sinking into nothingness, receiving less and less food every day. The Maw was in high demand these days, the rich were desperate to come and visit, to engorge themselves on the flesh of children and the nobles who had visited before them. Of course, the latter was unknown to them, and they signed their own death certificates, becoming victims of their own gluttony. Once upon a time, Fox relished in knowing that one fact, because at least someone in the world was getting the punishment they deserved. Nowadays, Fox lacked that sanguine naivety.

The ‘guests’ were rich and powerful… or at least, they had been. Years and years ago, it had been some wayward form of displaying wealth, but times changed. The rich were no longer that stupid, but the poor were certainly that hungry. The Maw was no longer filled with wellborn folk who flaunted their status by consuming children; it was now being stocked with the ignoble who simply didn’t know any better, assuming it was a source of food and shelter, funded by eleemosynary donations. The poor consumed one another, unknowingly, and there was no gratification to be found in that for Fox. People like her, ate people like her.

Due to the influx of new arrivals keen on getting their fill, there wasn’t always much food left over for the children, no matter how many guests were slaughtered. There was a never-ending stream, ergo more mouths to fill, neglecting the mouths of hungry children stored away far, far below deck. They’d placed last in the very institution created to make well-fed child-chops their prized meal.

And now, all the kids around her were starving. Not a minute went by where a stomach wasn’t howling, and most had resigned themselves to their fate, knowing they were too weak and underfed to run if the Janitor approached them. Thinking about it, that was probably the intention. Perhaps the Lady needed fresh décor.

Fox could feel her thoughts spiralling into the same messy hurricane it was usually swept up into, but it wasn’t like it made much of a difference anyway. Thoughts were the only thing she had and pondering the happenings up above helped take her mind away from the spring digging directly into her shoulder blade. It was just as she felt her mind teeter on the edge of insanity that she was pulled back into the presence of the dormitories by a hand resting on her own. Instantly, Fox recognised the bony fingers and scrawny arms as the child on her neighbouring bed, Boa. Four years younger than Fox, Boa was seven years old, and had fled from the school before winding up on the Maw. A feisty child, he had to be to survive outside, but the fire inside of him was dwindling. Like most outsiders, he had fled to the Maw in the hopes of finding food and shelter, a sanctuary from the cruel and forbidding world. And just like every other underage ‘passenger’, he found himself imprisoned, counting down his days until he became the meal. Boa could barely stand nowadays, but a minute never passed in which the young boy didn’t have a smile on his face. He clung to Fox like a monkey. As the eldest, Fox cared for every other child in the dormitory, and Boa would gaze up at her as though she hung the moon.

Their hands clasped one another’s, slithered between the bars on the cots, and Fox felt she had to be even more gentle with his hand than she was last night; it seemed to have gotten smaller, more shrivelled, weaker, she was scared her own cumbersome hand would snap his frail wrist in half. They couldn’t see one another in the dark, but the contact was enough. It was timed perfectly, just as the door opposite their row of beds creaked open and in shuffled the Janitor.

The Janitor wasn’t significantly tall, but he loomed over the children despite his comically short legs. He made up for his lack of height with the length of his arms and grotesquely sized head. His entire body was disproportionate, nothing made sense, it seemed as though he was a being made up of a jumble of parts – as though his creator weren’t quite sure what to do when forming him either. He donned a brown coat that showed a nametag with ‘Roger’ scrawled on it, as well as a brown fedora. It was quite the phenomenon how such a small scrap of material balanced on top of the Janitors huge, perfectly spherical head without ever tumbling off. Thankfully, the Janitors face was never revealed to the children, it was covered by a thin, white mask, that did outline the slight silhouette of the abominations bulbous nose and constant sardonic grin.

Its expression never changed.

Everyone knew Roger was blind, he couldn’t see a thing and therefore his eyes (or where the children assumed his eyes would be) were covered by the mask. However, he had a keen ear, and was able to locate the slightest of sounds. It wasn’t a surprise this was the creature who slunk amongst the shadows of the prison, keeping an ear out for the prisoners, and quenching any attempted escapes with ease thanks to his monstrously long arms. He routinely entered the dormitories at this time, shuffling past the beds and hovering above a select few to ensure they were sound asleep… or in some cases, so he could snatch them from under their covers and take them to his lair – never to be seen again.

Because of this, Boa would always cling to Fox just before Roger entered. They both knew neither one could save the other if Roger were to decide their days were numbered, but it provided some comfort to know someone was there. A friend was there.

Both children shut their eyes the moment the ominous creaking began. Not to convince Roger they were asleep, of course, but to avoid the sickening sight of him walking through the room. It was one thing to feel his presence in the room, loitering right above the bed, their tangible sleep paralysis demon, but to keep their eyes open while he hoisted his limbs through the room was a separate, terrifying experience in itself. Not even a breath left their lips as the slow, gradual creaks made their way across the room, until he was directly above their bed. Fox felt Boa’s arm tense up upon the monster laying his hand on the young boy’s cot, freakishly long fingers skimmed across the bedsheets, and Fox prepared herself to lose another friend to the Monsters of the Maw. Digits outstretched, and fingertips brushed against Boa’s covered figure. Remaining still was the hardest part but trying to run would be foolish; it’d only ensure his demise.

Thankfully, the Janitor backed away, satisfied with the lack of response from Boa. Assuming the young boy was sound asleep, Roger backed away and continued onwards, before making his way out of the dormitories. His shuffling continued, further away, until the children were unequivocally certain their sounds could no longer be heard by his golden ears.

And with that, the entire dormitory let out a sigh of relief in unison.

Boa scrambled upwards, wasting no time diving into Fox’s bed, and was welcomed by her outstretched arms. She held onto him tightly, trying to smother the small twinge of guilt she felt in the back of her mind for not jumping to save him just now in the embrace. “Shh, you’re okay… you’re okay,” her voice soothed, the boat rocking them both back and forth.

“Are you okay?” a child to the left called out. “I thought he was going to die!”

“Rather him than me,” another muttered.

No one else was willing to admit it, but the silence that hung in the air afterwards confirmed to Boa that everyone else in the dormitory was thinking the exact same thing.

Knowing the Janitor had completed his nightly visit allowed the children to fall asleep somewhat comfortably and had been woken up the next morning by Fox, who urged them all to get out of bed and come with her to the kitchen. With any luck, some food may have been dumped down the chutes by one of the chefs, and it would be up to Fox to divide it evenly among her and the others (although more than often, Fox sacrificed her own portion so that the frailest of kids could have a little extra to eat).

In single file, the ragtag group followed their leader to the kitchens, a marching band of rumbling stomachs. Like most of the doors in the Maw, they were far too big for anyone who wasn’t a monster to open, so Fox had to get help from two of the stronger, more well-fed juveniles. The three of them heaved the door forward and kept it open wide while the rest of the prisoners ran into the kitchen.

They were antsy, desperate for a meal, but they maintained the ‘prisoner etiquette’ and waited for Fox to back away from the door, jump up and open the chute the chefs threw meat down. That was likely less due to good manners, and more due to the fact none of them could reach the chute, nor perform the leap necessary to get up there. Sore hands lifted the opening and felt around the box for this morning’s breakfast. Her heart skipped a beat when she couldn’t feel it the moment her outstretched hand reached inside, but her fear was settled once she leaned in further and felt the food. With a slight grunt, the eldest removed the hunk of meat from the chute and dropped it on the food, cringing at the repugnant squelch it made.

At this point, Fox could usually hear her little troops hopping from one foot to the other, growing too impatient to wait any longer for their share to be given to them… but that chorus of tiny footsteps hadn’t yet started. Her head whipped around, and she nearly lost her footing and fell to the floor in shock. She let go of the bar holding her up, and landed, rather ungracefully, on her rear.

The meat was no bigger than an avocado, and the shrivelled carrot that had been tied to the flesh felt like more of an insult than generosity. There was twenty of the prisoners, and this couldn’t be solved by Fox giving up her share.

Pleading eyes watched her panicked expression. The cogs in her brain were churning, trying to come up with a solution to feed the five thousand. With any luck, more food would get sent down in a few hours, so it seemed as though some of them may have to wait a little longer before eating.

“The youngest will eat now…” the youngest being the children aged 5-7, of which there were eight of. “The rest of us will have to wait a few more hours until dinner gets thrown down. We’ll only have one meal each today.”

The eldest groaned, and one burst into tears.

“We can’t keep going on like this.” Fox recognised the voice as being Ace, a nine-year-old who commonly challenged Fox’s decisions. In most cases, he was being his usual finicky self, but right now, Fox knew he was right, and so did everyone else.

“I know…” She dug her tiny palms into her eyes and groaned. “I don’t know what to do, it’s not like we can send a strongly-worded letter upstairs and demand more food.”

Ace scoffed, and she felt her nails dig into her palms to prevent herself from punching him in his weaselly face. “We need to do something now – look at us – we’re starving, I’d be surprised if most of us weren’t dead by the end of the week!”

The younger ones looked to one another with fear in their eyes. Starving to death sounded like an awful way to meet their maker. It’d be slow, gradual, and painful.

“What do you want me to do, Ace, start a workers strike? I don’t think Roger’s too fussed about us simply ‘refusing’ to succumb to our fates, we never exactly put up much of a fight for him in the first place.”

“You need to do something.”

She was eleven years old, how could she be expected to make an executive decision on the future of a crowd who were much younger than her. How could she care for children and keep them alive when she was a child herself? Who was caring for her? Who was keeping her alive?

“Shut up, Ace, it isn’t like you could do any better than Fox,” Boa, having sensed his friend’s uneasiness, piped up, throwing an accusatory look his way. And, as Ace usually did, he resolved to settle this dispute with violence, shoving Boa over.

Boa scrambled upright and went to strike back but was prevented by Fox standing in the middle of both boys, and getting Boa’s revenge for him, shoving Ace over, causing him to stumble back and fall into the barrel of gone-off meat. That’d be a smell he wouldn’t rid himself of easily…

“Both of you, chill. I’ll go looking for food.”

“Because that’s an idea none of us have considered before, yeah, I’m sure if we move the toy boxes around a few more times food will magically appear if we say ‘abracadabra’ enough,” was Ace’s smart-ass reply.

“No, idiot, I’m going to go upstairs and find food. Like Beth did.”

Chills ran down everyone’s spine at the mention of unfortunate Beth. Beth, Fox’s ‘predecessor’, had slipped out of the prison months prior in an attempt to go and find a better water source than the rusty taps that’d give the users tetanus just by simply looking at the basin. Beth had never returned.

Boa wrung his hands, and his bushy eyebrows furrowed together. “But what if you don’t come back…?”

Fox placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “I’ll come back. And, well, if I don’t, it’s one less mouth to feed, eh?” No one laughed. So much for trying to shed some light on her potential death.

“I’ll go after lunch; I’ll use the same exit Beth did. It’s risky, but we can’t sit around waiting for starvation to snuff us out.”

Fox’s name was already featured on Death’s to-do list. If it wasn’t starvation, she’d be snatched up by the Janitor. The Lady knew she was getting older, it wouldn’t be long before she met the same ending the other kids her age had. If it was going to be death, Fox was going to ensure there was a good reason behind it.

#little nightmares #little nightmares janitor #the lady #fanfic #horror #storytelling #oc #own character #ao3fic #ao3 fanfic #drabble

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 3 Co-Written with @southerngracela​

Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, but when you’re being held hostage by Hugh Ransom Drysdale there’s really not a lot to be thankful for, is there?

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 2 to our submission for @Jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 2

You could feel the chill of the outside seeping into your space, your bones, through the vented window following your shower. The way it crept in made you realize just how far along through fall you were, maybe it was even approaching the onset of the holiday weather. Either way, a storm seemed to be outside. At least it felt like it. Once dried, you found yourself wrapping up tighter in the thick cardigan you’d chosen before you dried your hair, and allowed yourself a quick squirt of perfume before settled into the reading chair in the corner of your room, your journal on your lap.

The little, leather bound book had been in your handbag which had been given back to you earlier that morning as the latest reward for behaving and as you ran your hand over the deep brown cover, you couldn’t help the air of excitement you felt at having been given your treasured little note book, despite the dreary sky you could see from the porthole above your chair.

It had actually surprised you that Drysdale had kept it and not disposed of it the same way he had your phone and your car. But for whatever reason, he’d held onto it, and for that you were grateful. Grateful that you had something of your own from before this imprisonment to anchor too. You’d expected him to want some kind of favour in return but he hadn’t demanded any sort of sexual gratification, simply informed you he would be out most of the morning and would be back mid to late afternoon. As soon as he had gone you had eagerly tipped the contents of your bag onto the bed, almost crying at the sight of your half empty bottle of Coco-Mademoiselle, the Mac Lip-gloss, NYX Eyebrow pencil, Mont Blanc fountain pen, a full tube of mints and your treasured journal. With teary eyes you’d put everything away in its new place, apart from the book and pen before padding into the bathroom for a shower, deliberately sorting yourself out for the day. All you could think of was taking the time so you could savour the moment when you could hopefully make some sense of the jumble in your head by spilling it onto a page.

You opened the cover and flicked to your last entry, the morning of Halloween. A rambling rant about Mick-The-Prick filled the page and you paused, tears in your eyes, as you’d give anything to be stood in his office thinking about ingenious ways to kill him and get away with it. Ironic, really considering that was exactly what your captor had done; committed murder and gotten away with it.

You went to jot the date down in the corner of the page and realised that actually, you didn’t have a clue what it was. Down here, night bled into day, day bled into night…and soon it all bled into weeks. However, given the fact your cycle had been and gone a week ago you figured that it was maybe four weeks since Halloween. Of course, you could ask Hugh, but the less you had to ask him the better as far as you were concerned. You hate the fact that he had this hold on you, that you had to ask for and ‘earn’ things by being ‘good’. And whilst it made you sick to your stomach, you’d fast learnt it was easier to comply than rebel. The night he had left you tangled in your sweater had hurt. It had taken you a good twenty minutes to muster the strength to work your way out and drag yourself into a bath, your body shaking with the trauma, sobs wracking your frame. Your body ached for days, your mind in a post-traumatic cloud of despair. And whilst it hadn’t broken you per-say, it had certainly made you realise exactly what the bastard was capable of, and you had no intention of finding out just how much further he was willing to go.

So, in summary, it had taken Ransom Drysdale two days to break you into compliance.

You’d become passive, so to speak. You gave into his whims, let him use you as he saw fit, did as he told… for the most part anyway. There had been a few other incidents post the sweater one where you’d forgotten yourself and protested, fought a little and he’d gone hard on you, but nothing like that second night. Your passive behaviour was mistaken by him for compliance, and as such you had earned a number of rewards. The bistro table where you took your meals, a book or two which just so happened to be by his grandfather, a gesture you weren't sure was him purging or pressing an agenda onto you. And more recently and most preciously, your bag. But, the strange thing was, that whilst he wanted you to give into him physically, he seemed to enjoy the fact that you were in no way, shape or form compliant to him in others. You openly sassed him, bit back, called him out and he actively encouraged it. He’d started spending a little more time with you in the mornings and afternoons, not just visiting you to toy with you or fuck, but to engage in these little tete-a-tete’s, and the sickest, most perverted thing about it was that you were almost glad. The loneliness was crippling, and you craved company. Even if it was his.  

All things considered, you’d rather ask him for as little as possible so instead, you flicked to the front of the book and crossed off the days on the small calendar inside the cover. Deciding that the date it led you to was as accurate as it was going to get, you turned back, jotted it down in the top right of your page and stared at the blank lines, looking to sort your thoughts for your next entry.

The saying used to go, what's in a name, however as I sit here thinking back on the last few weeks I wonder now what's in a day. My days consist of imprisonment. Held by a captor I have met once before. He's smart, almost too smart. Displaying forms of abuse and aggressive behaviors any FBI analyst would love to dive deep into. But that's not my job, no, my job is to please and satisfy him. Answer to his whims of gratification at any call of the day. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But if I behave, he lets few things get by. I miss home, my bed, my life. I miss Mick, which is saying a lot all things considered. I don't know still what he wants from me, other than the obvious sexual gratification with little to no room for anything else. I'm a toy, a means to an itch. I don't know how long exactly I've been here, I can only guess it's been about a month. Nor do I know how long I'll have to stay. The answers are blurred like my vision, marred by tears and the low light inside. I haven't seen outside since the day he took me. I haven't been anywhere outside this room. I can see from the small porthole window above this stupidly soft leather chair the season has changed. It feels like deep fall, and as a storm comes outside, what little sky I see is bleak and dark, clouds covering the bluest of skies, angry and ready to open up, raining down water to wash away the sins of the day. I wish I could do the same. 

Before you realized, time had obviously passed, for the sound of the door bolts unlocking had you guessing it was late afternoon or early evening. A glance up at the porthole behind you confirmed as much. The sky was dark and rain had been beating on the window for a little while. 

In came Drysdale, hair a bit wet, a strand slightly out of place, wool pants and maroon sweater. He carried a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looked irked, like he'd wasted time on something, a look you were now able to decipher after weeks of seeing it. 

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, setting the plate down on the bistro table with its two accompanying chairs, waiting for you to join him. 

Instead of biting back, you simply whispered, "it’s Thanksgiving?" You checked the inside cover of your journal and see the date again. You were a day off and it now dawned on you. It was the fourth Thursday of the month and indeed, Thanksgiving. You glanced back up at Ransom and a deep sadness washed over you. Closing your journal and setting it on the table by your chair, you stood, moving towards him and the plate of food. You took a seat and looked down at the plate, full of the holiday dish basics; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, diced not candied yams and roasted green beans. It was gourmet and nothing near what he'd been serving you or managing to try. "Thank you," you said softly, rolling your fork through the potatoes. You take a bite but it's about as bland and tasteless as your despair. 

"I brought it back from the country club, I met my father there," he looked under your gaze again, as if willing your eyes to his. "Do you not like it?" 

Finally, your gaze met those cold cerulean orbs, setting your fork down and you took a drink of water, "No, it's fine." Then you picked up your fork again and took another bite, this time of the turkey and gravy. You didn't have it in you for an argument or it's physical ramifications. 

"Are you not hungry?" Ransom pressed. 

"I guess not as much as I thought," you repled further poking at your food, your voice cracking a little as you try to keep your composure. The sting of the holiday has you broken, far more than you'd expected. Normally, today you'd be helping your mother in the kitchen, settling the final touches on the side dishes and listening to your father tell your uncle about some a-typical dad joke he'd heard. Your sister would be giddy over the wine while her boyfriend of the month received death glares from said uncle and your father. 

Ransom outwardly sighed and you wait for what you were trying to avoid. "Are you alright?" 

The question threw you off guard completely and you struggled to hide the shock from your expression. He never cared about your feelings before. Maybe he thought you were coming down with something. You braced yourself to answer honestly. There was no point in lying, he'd see through it. 

"I'm fine, I'm not sick if that's what you're thinking," you answered, a deep restraint on your tone to keep yourself in check. "I hadn't realized what day it was. I didn't know it was Thanksgiving." You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked hard. "My mom, my sister and I, we used to all help make dinner as a family. My dad and uncle would talk a bunch of shit around the fireplace while shooting death glares at my sister's flavor of the month."

He looked at you like he was confused. You scoff, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He squint his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. His body language completely changed as he leaned forward on his forearms, popping one shoulder up higher than the other. 

"Nothing," you backed down immediately. 

"Tell me," he pressed. 

God, he was relentless. You pushed your plate forward and leaned on your own elbows. You looked at him with a raised brow, "am I going to be in trouble if you don't like what I have to say?" 

"Depends," he popped a shoulder smugly. 

You matched his expression and his demeanour falters just a fraction. You saw it, but you didn't hold back. "Then I'd rather keep it to myself. That's what you want isnt it? Me to comply, be obedient? Frankly, I'm not in the mood." 

He failed to hide his smirk and you noticed that too, "Sweetheart." It wasn't laced with teasing, rather his pet name for you on his tongue held a cautious venom. 

"You hate your family. You know nothing about love and what it takes to give love. Hell, I don't doubt that for a minute you've ever felt loved. It's all an act. Self-preservation even. I don't know you or your family outside of the hours of research I did and the mere forty five minutes I listened to you drone on about your 'predicament'. But, the cold hearted truth of it is, you don't know how to love." You watched him run his tongue along his teeth as he continued to glare at you, but you weren't finished. "And that's what family is, it's what they do. They love, they are the embodiment of love at its deepest root. Maybe, just maybe somewhere along your life, your parents loved you, but judging by the Thrombey-Drysdale standards, none of you know what love is outside your selfish tithings and flashy cars. It got lost along the way, more than likely long before you ever were born."

"Wow," he raised his brows and clicked his tongue against his teeth, "That's good, that's really good."

You're fear receptors suddenly spiked as recognizable flash of anger in his eyes flashed through his irises. But there was something else there that you couldn't put your finger on it. Your breathing quickly up-ticked as you felt your palms begin to sweat.

He inhaled a deep, almost centering breath, "that perfume in your bag, I like it."

As if he'd grown a second head, you blinked hard refocusing on him. Had you heard him right? You'd just broken a rule, laid out an unspeakable truth for him and now in a blink he's, God forbid, complimenting your scent? Who the fuck was this guy? Was he on meds? Because he should be or he should at least probably share. It might make life here more bearable. "What?" 

"The perfume from your bag, you're wearing it. It smells good," he lamented. 

Alright, now the 'of sound mind' argument might be worth something because he sure as shit wasn't now. You swallowed and picked up your fork, taking a bite of the cold food just to buy yourself some time as you tried to process the scene before you. You had no remark to make. Confusing jumbled any thought of a coherent word you could utter. 

"Maybe if I'm out, I can pick you up a new bottle. I noticed you were near empty," Ransom offered. 

This was starting to make your stomach turn. If he'd gone through your bag, because why wouldn't he at this point, smelled your perfume, had he read your journal? You made a mental note to go back through and see if there was anything he'd read that he had used against you thus far or could use to corner you in the future. You looked around the room, waiting to see if you were being Punk'd. Just who the fuck is this guy? Without your expression giving too much of your confusion away, you nod at him in reply. "Thank you, I'd like that."

"Hmph," he paused, a dramatic effect he seemed to know that your heart rate up in anxiety. "Well, then why are you looking at me like I have two heads, Y/N?" 

Tread lightly, you thought to yourself. He didn't call you by your first name often, in fact, the last time he had, you were very much smarting back and it resulted in a forceful situation that left you raw and sore for a few days. It was always 'Sweetheart'. 

He baited you, you knew it, but you couldn't back out now. So you sighed, "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but, I don't even know who you are right now. Do you? One minute you're giving me food and being gentle, the next you're allowing my opinion, and now you're ready to flip this table. That's as close as two heads as it gets." 

"Careful, Sweetheart," he now glared at you. There it was, you were in for it. The approach of choice, you weren't sure of, but he was done. You'd learned the different tones in his voice by now, the cues he gave. You were definitely in trouble. You dropped your eyes to your plate. The food stone cold and no longer even appealing in its slightest measure, a wave of nausea washing over you. You further pushed your plate away, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

His broad frame rose from the chair, "you weren't to begin with," his left hand reaching for the plate and holds it in his hand, "Third drawer down in the armoire. Pick something, I'll be back."

You watched him leave, the familiar click of the door shutting and snap of the lock sounded around the small apartment and you exhaled loudly, your head dropping into your hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d requested that you ‘dress for the occasion’ so to speak. With a deep breath you stood up and crossed the room, opening the drawer of requirements, seeking out a negligee for him to no doubt remove. Your fingers roamed over the fabrics and selection. La Perla, Agent Provocateur, Carine Gilson, Coco de Mer and Fleur of England were just a handful of the expensive, high-end brands that filled the space. Your fingers smoothed over a black macrame and tule underwired long line bra and the matching thong that was folded neatly under it. Plucking it from the drawer, you headed for the bathroom. You slipped out of your casual tee, duster cardigan and leggings, the bra and panties you'd had on. You sighed as you took a good look at yourself in your naked form. 

While you hadn't lost a ton of weight over the last month, you could tell you'd grown thinner. You weren't gaunt but your lack of a daily Dunkin' Donuts macchiato had seemed to thin you out. Your captor made sure you were fed, but you didn't always eat. The plump of your cheeks had receded and your little pooch brought on by happy carbs was sucked into your frame. There were a few bruises still seen, near green, an indication of their final healing stage. The pock mark from a hickey he'd given you still a bit scaby as he'd broken the skin just barely. This was your life now and it made what few bites of Thanksgiving dinner in your stomach nearly lurch forward back up your throat.

You swallowed it down, pulling the long line bra straps up your arms and clasping it behind your back. Your legs slipped into the thong panties and you pulled the material up your freshly smooth legs. Your shaky fingers plucked at the hair tie that fastened the end of your brain closed, nails raking through your hair to loosen your tendrils. He always wanted your hair loose. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you were ready. 

***** Ransom tossed the un-eaten food into the garbage and dumped the plate into the sink to be dealt with later. Turning so that his lower back was leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter he ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw, his mind ticking over the events of the day so far. A pain-in-the-ass Thanksgiving meal with his father had been made bearable by the fact he knew he was coming back to her, and because he hadn’t wanted to be a complete monster he’d made the effort of bringing her a nice dinner back too. But she’d hardly touched any of it.

And what disturbed him most about it, was the fact that instead of wanting to punish her for being an ungrateful bitch, he instead felt a deep rooted sense of concern. She’d lost weight, her face was pale, her hip bones more pronounced, and frankly the last thing he wanted was her passing out on him. Whilst he wanted her compliant, necrophilia really wasn’t his bag.

He had thought by giving her back the bag she’d had on her the night he took her he might have seen a lift in her spirits so to speak, a little gratitude, but instead she’d been meek and reserved until he’d coaxed that familiar sass out of her. And even then she’d been reticent.

It should have pleased him that she was learning her place and becoming more subservient. But if he was being honest with himself, he almost missed her fighting and arguing back. It had been exciting in a way, and he had thought it would have taken longer than it had to break her so to speak. Maybe he had overestimated exactly what a fighter she was, maybe she wasn’t the right muse for his writing after all. Because, let’s face it, writing a tale about a woman who was captured and broken into submission within two days, merely becoming a puppet for her captor’s whims was hardly going to win him any accolades was it? He needed more, needed something that he could spin a good story from. He knew now that when he went back down to her he had to try a different tact so to speak, he needed to coax her mind into reacting not merely her body.

Because if he couldn’t do that, there was no point in keeping her.

He allowed her half an hour or so before he headed back down the stairs and found her sat on the bed, dressed in one of the sets he’d purchased, her hair loose round her face and shoulders the way he liked. She jumped to her feet and he had to actively supress the groan that was rolling in his throat as his eyes scanned her up and down, and he didn’t miss the slight bruises that dotted her skin in various places where he’d marked her as his own. She’d long since stopped trying to cover herself up. Instead she stood stock still, her eyes focussed on the floor.

With long strides he walked into the room and stopped in front of her, tipping her chin up with his finger so she was looking at him, her eyes wide with trepidation and he gave a smirk as he reached up, brushing her hair off the side of her face and neck, dropping his head as he did so.

“You smell so good, Sweetheart.” He inhaled against her pulse point, lips pressing into her there. He felt the gasp of her breath, the way her skin pricked with chill bumps. He smirked to himself, he’s found her spot. And he filed that away, committing it to memory. 

“I like this…” he practically purred as he toyed with the straps to the bra, a long, thick middle finger outlining the strap against her skin, lips following pursuit.

“You should, you chose it.”

He chuckled, ignoring the snark behind her words. “Like I chose you, huh?”

Like I chose you.

His words echoed around your head, reminding you exactly why you were in this fucking situation. Because he had decided you would be. He wanted you, and just like with everything else in his life that Hugh Ransom Drysdale wanted, he simply took. But what worried you the most about all this was whether or not you would be discarded the same way he no doubt discarded the other possessions he lost interest in.

You took a deep, steadying breath as his hands moved from the straps of your bra, long fingers moving to caress the back of your neck, but there was no grabbing, no force. He was being positively gentle.

And it scared the crap out of you.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked, his breath hot and wet in your ear as you trembled under the further graze of his fingers against the macramé of your set. 

“You know I am," you swallowed nervously. You weren't new to this, this wasn't your first time, but the way he was being soft, a stark character change to his a-typical stance with you was what had you crawling in fear in the inside. Was it a game? Was it some sort of ploy? Was this his idea of foreplay now before he turned it up and went hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to make you cry?

A flat palm ran down your abdomen, already taught in fear. But not before a thumb grazed along the underside of your breast. Agonizingly slow, his hand, still splayed over you, dips into your matching macrame panties, dipping into your wet folds, thumb lightly pressing against your clit. 

“You’re so wet, considering you’re scared.”

You didn't answer, just swallowed hard, the lump stuck in your throat as it fought against a little whimper. 

His mouth once more latched onto your neck, the kisses gentle as opposed to the bruising ones you had become accustomed to. The fingers in your folds matched his slow nature, teasing you in such a way that when you closed your eyes and focussed your mind elsewhere, you could almost believe you were somewhere with a man you’d given permission to touch you in such away. But when his lips moved to your jawline and you took a deep breath, the heady scent of his cologne hit your senses and your eyes flew open as you were reminded just whose lips and hands were violating you in such away.

You swallowed as Ransom pulled away, his hand gently grasping your chin once more as he issued a simple instruction.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that had once more risen up your throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs bent, hands resting on his knees as he watched you the way a lion watched its prey. You undid the clasp on your bra, your eyes remaining locked on his as you slid the straps down your shoulders and dropped the garment to the floor. Your captor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down your body as you moved to shed the bottom half, wondering what on earth had been the point of wearing it in the first place. But even as you asked yourself that, you already knew the answer. It was a bout power, another way for him to remind you just who you belonged to now. How he could strip you bare in more way than one without even lifting a finger.

But lift a finger he did, curling it in mid-air as he beckoned you towards him. You took careful steps over the floor until you were stood in between his legs. His large hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs, before he pulled you towards him, his nose brushing the skin of your abdomen as he took  a deep breath, fingers curling round your thighs.

And then, in a flash he stood, taking you with him, and before you could so much as utter a squeak or noise of surprise he had you naked, laying across the bed, the sheets cold against your skin, a contrast to the heat emanating from the body against yours. The look in his lust blown eyes was overwhelming. You didn't know what you were in for but as his body, still clothed in the frayed maroon sweater and wool slacks sunk into the mattress between your legs, you felt a chill course through your veins, your skin, again, pricking in bumps all over. His hands, with their thick fingers, trailed long lines up and down your thighs, Ransom's full lips kissing at your sensitive inner skin, a nip or two here and there as he went from your knee, upward. 

He could smell your arousal, see it glistening as it dripped from your core. "Someone's ready," he quipped. He watched you swallow hard, a literal lump in your throat bobbing the skin. Your eyes never left him. "No cumming until I tell you. Do you understand?" When you didn't answer immediately, he swiped his tongue over your wet lips, tasting the honey your body gave him, your back arching away from sheets. "Do you understand?" 

And there it was, your punishment finally arriving from your little moment before over dinner. As you still had your wits about you, you uttered a single word response, in the hope that the more submissive you were, the more accepting you were of your chastisement, the less hard on you he was going to be.

"Yes." 

His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, the lavish holiday meal he'd partaken in not filling enough. His thumb pressed against your engorged nub, causing you to writhe but a firm arm over your abdomen kept you in place. The same thick fingers that traced lines up your thighs, two were now buried deep inside you, his tongue working away any juices that seeped out. As he gave you a third, stretching you more, you felt your walls start to tighten, that burning coil in your belly flare and your hands gripped the sheets tighter. 

Ransom could clearly feel you flutter against his fingers as he stopped his assault and looked up at you.

"What did I say?" 

Your chest heaved, your stomach taught and you fought to obey. When you managed to calm yourself, he began again, almost from square one, slowly, tantalizingly slow. 

The action was torture and you were desperately willing yourself to remain grounded as again your body fought to ride over the edge building inside you. When his mouth was over you completely, tongue deep, thumb pressing again into your clit, you felt the urge to cum. But he pulled away, slowly, his thumb stopping the pressure, his tongue slowly dragging out of you. 

"I said no. This is your punishment for your smart mouth over dinner."

"Please, I need to, I'll... I'll make it worth your while, please just let me." Your voice sounded alien as you spoke, the words leaving your mouth in the desperate hope he’d take pity on you but to no avail. Your attempts at bartering served only to frustrate him, anger him even and he Ransom backed away, roughly pulling you to the edge of the bed before stripping out of his sweater and undershirt, the undeniable outline of his hard cock along his thigh strained against his wool slacks. 

Harsh in his grip, he repositioned himself between your legs, your thighs across his shoulders, ass dangling above the floor as a heavy arm kept you still. His flat tongue, hot and full of your sex was eating away at you while his final throws of resolve ate away at him.

“I’m done playing fucking games.” he growled against your aching cunt “I should have gagged you, stuffed my cock deep into the back of your throat, something, anything to shut you up.”

You barely had time to register his words before once more you were flat out against the mattress, trying to regain your breath and calm yourself down when he backed away, tore open his flies and smirked down at you.

"Oh no, Sweetheart, we're not done yet."  He kneeled beside you, his chest heaving, hair completely out of place, anger and wait, was that pain, flickering in his eyes as he stuffed you with a hard thrust of his length. "Now you’re gonna cum on this dick."

He thrusted hard and within a few slams of his hips against yours, he allowed you the release you were begging for, "that's right, Princess, cum on my cock." 

You wept at the feeling finally freeing you, cries of pleasure spilling from your lips as you squeezed around him. Your chest heaving against his, skin to skin. The fabric of his wool pants hot and itchy against your inner thighs. He was still thrusting but now it had slowed to a roll, slow and calculated. Your muddled mind was buzzing and rapidly trying to sort out if he'd cum inside you or if he wasn't finished. His features were softer, but still filled with purpose and his lips latched onto a naked breast causing your body to react, tingles and flames licking at your core again. His eyes looked up at yours as he caged you in, still buried deep inside you, hips rolling. 

"I said we weren't done," he rasped. His thrusts and rolls, the two very different tactics mixing now, made the swell of his cock inside you abhorrently pleasurable. Try as you might, it was impossible to feel otherwise. 

And Ransom was finding it equally as hard to hold on. His weight was evenly distributed over her, his cock swelling inside her heat. It took all he had not to blow his load the first time he made her cum, hearing the sinful sounds of her orgasm that felt like a volcanic eruption around his hard shaft. But now he could feel her again, tiny little pulses around his already overtly sensitive dick. He was sure his precum was leaking out, wanting to paint the way for the rest of him to follow. He rolled and thrust as his lips nipped at her neck. She moaned loudly, her body exuding lust. He could feel her shake beneath him and to his delight and surprise her eyes were no longer screwed shut and turned away. Instead they were locked on his. The moment those deep hued orbs met his, he felt a hitch in his breath and tightness in his chest that travelled through his belly and into his cock, causing the thick member to throb inside her. Tiny, soft hands gripped at his biceps, her touch a fiery scald against his skin, almost as if it were frost bite. Her touch equally shocking as her stare and he gave a roll of his hips to hide what he felt. A deep, satiated roll of his hips that sent her over the edge. 

"Hugh!" She came around him, harder than her first, crying out his given name. It snapped him from his moment of revelation, driving him insanely frustrated at the word leaving her lips. He slammed into her as she rode out her orgasm, chasing his own. 

You felt the dismissal of his body as he violently pulled free from your walls, spewing his hot seed over your abdomen, drops claiming your tits too. He nearly collapsed, his dick in hand, the other holding himself up against the mattress between your legs. 

He left you there, dirty, degraded and shut the door with a barked instruction for you to clean yourself up. You no longer cried in front of him, either before, during or after. There was no point. He didn’t care about how you felt, but the thing he DID seem to care about was the fact that you still refused to call him Ransom. 

It was the one thing you held on to, the only thing that gave you an inch of control in this entire fucked up situation. You hadn’t missed the look on his face when you’d cried out 'Hugh' in the throes of your last orgasm. Before that moment there had been a softness in his eyes, one that had unnerved you no end, along with something that had looked suspiciously like hope. But when his given name had tumbled involuntarily from your mouth and not the one he preferred that softness had turned to contempt and you didn't miss the undercurrent of disappointment either.

And seeing that, knowing that it pissed him off and dare you say it, upset him so much was your single, albeit feeble, act of rebellion that served as a desperate boost to your ever waning inner strength. *****

Ransom laid in his large, plush bed, hands behind his head as the silk sheets pooled at his waist as morning was in full swing outside. His thoughts strayed to his girl in the basement and he took a deep breath, shifting slightly as he remembered the way her fingers had felt as they’d curled around his biceps, her touch firey but cold. That had been the first time she’d touched him when she wasn’t trying to push him away, it had been involuntary, he knew that, a reaction to the way she’d been feeling, the way he had made her feel. 

A twitch resounded deep in his belly....the way he made her feel.

He realised now that he’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The force had been necessary to make her comply at first, but last night she hadn’t just complied she’d participated, just what he had wanted all along. And all after he’d shown her a little leeway, brought her dinner, entertained her talk. He understood now that he needed to play a different card from his hand. She responded better to conversation, talking. Ransom hated fucking talking, he was more cerebral, calculating. Conversation means connecting, and connecting was something he wasn’t particularly interested in normally. He needed to lead, to be in charge, but it was clearly what she knew and thrived on, so he had to swallow his apprehension down to play the long game, to get what he wanted. 

Now he understood that, it was going to be so fucking easy. All he had to do was to seemingly show her compassion, a little give so he could take so to speak. He rolled his head, cracking his neck as he remembered what she said about cooking with her mom so he decided that after her stellar performance last night, today she’d earned a bigger reward than a book or some journal. He was going to show her what she could have if she just gave in and admitted what he knew she truly wanted. A large house, a garden, a pool, a hot tub, silk sheets, a large bed, and a man to fuck her every way to heaven and back. He could give her everything that any woman could possibly desire, and then some.

With a twitch of a smirk across his lips, Ransom pulled his naked frame out of bed and slipped into joggers, a soft waffle knit thermal long sleeve pulled over his tousled hair. He felt like company for breakfast and he knew exactly to invite up. 

His bare feet padded with purpose over the plush carpet of his room, down the stairs and onto the first floor, over the hard wood and marble tile of the halls and entry, down the plush carpeted spiral staircase down to the basement.

He reached the door and gently turned the locks, quietly pushing the door open as he turned the knob. It opened quietly and his eyes fell upon the empty bed. He frowned slightly, wondering where she was. Then his eyes found her, sitting curled up with her eyes cast upward, that little tease of a porthole window in her focus. She'd turned her chair around so she could see it more clearly, the throw blanket he'd tossed at her the week before was wrapped around her body. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't early nor was it afternoon. Not that it mattered, neither had anywhere else to be.

"Good morning," he said lowly. He watched as her eyes slowly moved away from the only bit of outside world she'd seen for weeks now.

"Morning," she replied quietly, her eyes locking onto his. "I err, I was just..." she trailed off. "Actually, I don't know what I was doing to be honest."

He stalked up to the chair, kneeling in front her. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her cheek bone. "You were such a good girl last night. Took me so well, teased me with that little number you had on. I've thought about you all morning."

Ransom watched her throat bob as she swallowed before licking her lips and biting the inside corner of her lip. Such an innocent gesture that had him half hard straight away.

"I want to give you something. But you have to be good, or it goes away," he started. "Can you be good, Sweetheart?"

She nodded, slightly. "Okay," he smirked. "Now, fix the chair and come up to make us breakfast."

Ransom stood back, allowing you some space to accommodate his request. You slipped the throw blanket from your shoulders and left it in the chair as you rearranged the piece back to its normal state. You met him at the doorway. You didn't miss the way his eyes moved over you, the way they lit up in a way at as he looked at the silken material covering your body. The dark teal silk and lace cami set was just one of a handful of options he'd provided for you. All the same, different colors, all in your size. 

You hesitated for a second, not sure if this was another one of his little games but he simply met your eyes with his own and nodded up the stairs. With tentative, shaky steps you climbed them, sensing him close behind you as for the first time in weeks you left your prison.  You felt anxious, highly on edge and nervous. What was awaiting you? There was the sickening feeling in your stomach of excitement too, you hadn’t seen the outside since Halloween. You paused at the top of the stairs in the hall. The kitchen was directly across from you, the entry to your right. The door to the basement clicked shut and you felt Ransom’s firm chest behind your back as his form invaded your space. He dragged a finger down your arm causing the strap of your top to fall away, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Straight ahead, Sweetheart."

“Okay,” you whispered before you slowly made your way through to the large, airy kitchen. You stood looking around, taking in the fancy appliances before you turned back to Ransom. "Did you have something in mind?”

"Well..." Ransom leaned in the doorway, watching you as you stood in the middle of the tiled floor "Yesterday wasn't the first time you said you enjoyed to cook so I thought you might like to." His eyes flicked once more down your frame and back up again before he nodded his head towards the rear of the room. “Anything you need is in the pantry and fridge.”

“And I can make anything I want?” You blinked, not quite able to believe what he was allowing you to do. It was fucked up that you were even considering this as a reward but, you’d take it. Boy would you take it, anything to grasp some sense of normality in this day-by-day hell you were living.

“Sure.” Ransom popped a shoulder again and you took a deep breath before you turned and headed to the sink to wash your hands before sorting out your menu and you froze. The outside landscape had stopped you cold. From what you could see of the back garden the property was secluded, not over looked. A lawn extended a fair distance back from the rear of the house, a neat decking area stood to the right which sported a hot tub and a little further down there looked to be a pool of some kind which was covered over for the season. Trees hung over the bottom of the garden lining the high wooden fence, what few leaves they still sported were shades of crimson, gold and brown and the river traced it’s banks as it curved around the side and back of the house, the sun shining off the surface, giving it the impression it was made of sapphires. It was breathtakingly beautiful and you felt your heart shatter, your eyes well and you couldn't help but hold back the urge to weep as your chest contracted painfully. You were so close to the outside, separated only by a pane of glass, yet it had never felt further away.

His voice broke you from your despair and you swallowed back the sob that choked your throat as you flicked your attention to the left, Ransom's reflection drawing closer towards you as he crossed the terracotta tiled floor.

"Everything alright?"

You cleared your throat and gave a quick shake of your head, "Fine."

Again you felt him in your space. His presence consuming. “You sure?”

Sure? No you weren’t sure. Because none of this was fine, in fact it was as far from fine as it could possibly get. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to spin round and hammer your fists into any part of his body you could hit but you knew that it wouldn't get you anywhere, bar back in the basement likely shackled naked to the bed so you instead turned slowly to find yourself caged in by his broad frame so close to yours. You cast your eyes downward, uncomfortable at his searching stare, "Yeah, I’m sure.”

Your tongue flicked nervously over your lips as you continued to avoid his gaze before you cleared your throat “How do you like your eggs? Or would you prefer an omelette? Pancakes even?" The urge to move away from him pulled you away from your idea of a menu. Brunch basics were flooding your brain and you rattled off a few nervously. He may have said you could make whatever you wanted, but right now, you had no clue. Seeing a different space, the outside world and breathing new air had rattled you.

“You choose.” Ransom spoke softly, his hand reaching up to brush your hair off your face before he tipped your chin up so your eyes met his. He looked at you, and you swallowed as for the first time there was something unreadable on his face. His eyes were looking at you in a way they’d never looked at you before, with a softness you’d never have anticipated he could possess.

"Waffles." You suddenly blurted out, desperate to escape his gaze "I err, do you have a waffle iron?”

“No.” He deadpanned.

"Oh," you swallowed "Erm, then in that case French toast...maybe? Is that ok?"

“Sounds delicious.” He said, his hand dropping from your face, “Sure it’ll taste almost as good as you.”

“Great. How about with fresh Chantilly cream and berries if you have them?” You asked, completely ignoring his blatant back handed compliment and you started familiarizing yourself with the space as you glanced around.

“Like I said, whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He shrugged, and with that he stepped back to allow you to move away.

Ransom watched her move around the luxurious kitchen, looking through the pantry and cabinet near the stove taking out cinnamon and vanilla, plucking items like bread, butter, eggs, berries and cream from the fridge. Searching drawers for utensils and measuring cups and spoons. Finding a pan and bowl from a bottom cabinet. Measuring sugar from the glass jar on the counter. He hoped the ingredients were still fresh, he wasn't exactly sure how long they'd been stored. She moved like she belonged there, he thought to himself. So sexy looking in her nightwear, bare feet on the tile, her ass and breasts moving underneath the silk as she stretched and worked. 

"Coffee?" He offered, as he moved from one side to the other. He made sure his exquisite espresso machine was ready as it sat in all its glory on its own portion of the counter like a batista station inside Starbucks. 

He didn't miss the way she watched him move around her, preparing the coffee and grabbing the orange juice from the fridge. He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he opened the cupboard where he kept the glasses and mugs. He peered down at her, giving a twitch to the corner of his mouth. A smirk indeed. He noted the way her eyes followed him as he poured the juice, like he was going to poison her or something. 

"It's just juice, Sweetheart," he said nonchalantly and put the juice back in the fridge. He set the breakfast table for them and took a seat in his place, a now hot cup of coffee in his hand, hers sitting on the counter next to her. 

It wasn’t long before she had finished and brought the plates to the table, sitting down timidly in the seat to his right as he gestured to it, stopping her dead as she was about to make her way around to the opposite side.

It was quiet, the only sounds heard for a while were the click and scrape of forks and knives cutting away at the plates of food. Ransom wouldn't admit it out loud, but this was the best French toast he'd ever had in his life. Something about it, the way it was not soggy, but perfectly moist, the edges just crispy. The way the cream made for no syrup and the sweet berries added the final element. He watched her pick at the food for a moment or two as he glanced over at her and saw a small bit of Chantilly in the corner of her mouth.

A long arm reached across the table and automatically she flinched a little, as if she was going to pull away but one firm stare stopped her in her tracks. His thick thumb padded away the white, sweet cream and he brought the same thumb to his lips, sucking the cream away. He lifted his brows in a teasing manner and twitched up his lips, "Delicious. Like I said, almost as good as you, Sweetheart."

"Thanks, I think," she paused. 

"Trust me, I know."

The comment seemingly threw her off her meal and it didn't get past Ransom. She had started picking at it, moving it around the plate like she had done with her dinner the night before. He, on the other hand, was near finished. 

"Are you still not hungry?" He inquired. 

She shook her head, "I just made my portion too big. I overestimated my appetite, I guess."

"Huh," he placated her reply. He knew she was lying but he let it slide, realizing that seeing a new space, the window to the outside was overwhelming. So, he thought he'd sweeten the deal. "I thought maybe you'd like to see the house," he offered, watching as her big eyes locked onto his and she took a deep breath.

"That sounds nice, thank you."

"Good, after breakfast then." He nodded affirmingly, as if it were drying ink in his mind. He picked up his coffee and finished it off, his plate already clear. 

She stood from the table, collecting his plate with her own and headed for the sink. He turned in his chair, stalking her, watching her every move. The way she pitched over the sink, bending her frame over the dishwasher to load it as she cleaned up the kitchen. 

With each bend and snap of her hips, he felt his mouth water more. Her little silk cami riding up as she moved, her breasts falling in and out of a fuller view. When she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, he was on her. He moved behind her, his hands grabbed her hips as she spun around completely startled giving a gasp and a quick yelp. 

"Easy, Sweetheart," he chuckled as she looked at him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry... you, err...you startled me." She whispered as he moved his hands so they gripped at the side of the kitchen counter on either side of her, caging her in with his body.

"Some women would like that," he quipped, arching an eyebrow a little and watched as she swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward. Moving one hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder and around her neck, he tipped her head back up so those large, Bambi eyes locked onto his.

His hand adjusted, gripping her chin softly as he moved closer still, dipping his head he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. He felt her go rigid, her chest spiking as she drew in a sharp breath, her body shaking slightly in his hold. "Stop fighting it..." he whispered against her mouth before he kissed her again. This time, his tongue traced the line of her upper lip, the feel of it soft and soothing.

You felt his tongue line your lip and you couldn't hold the whimper of fear that passed through you. He’d never kissed you before, not on the mouth anyway. You felt him deepen his kiss, his big hand cupping your face, pulling you into it more. Your mind went elsewhere, imagining anyone but him kissing you like this. You couldn't deny it, this intimate moment, completely lost on both of you for different reasons, felt good and he was good at it. He was damn good at it in fact, and that alone made you want to vomit your breakfast into his throat. At that, you jerked back, panting a little, feeling your lips swollen from the way he'd sucked your bottom one between his, pulling at it just the right way. You hated the feeling between your legs that it had evoked, your body betraying you just like it always did.

In an attempt to stave off the conflicting emotions spiking within you, you focussed on his face, the face you hated and to your surprise he looked dazed. The usual stoic expression that clouded his features had been replaced with something akin to surprise but no sooner had you noticed it, it was gone.

"Clean up and I'll meet you in the study." He told you, his voice a deep almost pained whisper. 

"But I don't..." you started but were quickly cut off. 

"You're a smart girl, figure it out," he smirked and slipped away. 

You were tempted to follow, just so you'd see where he was going but you knew not to defy a command. The feeling of unease seemed to disappear as you slumped your shoulders and instead defeat filled your frame. A trembling hand came to your lips as jittery fingertips touched your swollen skin. Your bottom lip quivered like a ripple in a river and you quickly covered your mouth, turning on a dime as your French toast littered the sink. If the water hadn't been running already, Ransom would no doubt have heard you retching. You rinsed your mouth out to attempt at hiding that vomit taste from your tongue and quickly finished your task of cleaning up the kitchen, salty tears dripping from your chin, mixing with the soapy water. 

When you could stall no longer, you sighed and headed out into the large hallway, taking a quick look around. It was light, airy, the grand staircase swept in and curved round to the next floor and your eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door just beyond it. You hesitated, and then with a dejected sigh realised there was no point even trying to escape. Even if it was unlocked, which you doubted, the threat to your family was just too much for you to risk. Instead, you decided to head down the corridor to your right and found yourself in a large open plan living room of sorts. It was decorated in clean whites and crisp greys with a huge feature stone open fireplace and sported a bar at the back. A brown leather sofa and two matching arm chairs were strategically placed around an expensive looking coffee table but you didn’t bother to look at the rest, this wasn’t the room you needed so you turned back on yourself, walked back into the hall and took the turning to your left.

This time you found yourself walking into what you could only assume was his study-come-den of sorts. It was huge, and once again sported a sofa pushed up against the wall, looking out over the spectacular view of not only the garden but the river too. But that wasn’t what caught your attention, nor was it the walnut desk and laptop that sat upon it. It was the floor to ceiling bookshelf behind it. Your mouth dropped open as you made your way towards it but then you stopped, biting your lip. Were you supposed to be looking at them? But, he had said to meet you in here. And left you to find your own way.  Surely, if he didn’t want you looking around he wouldn’t have left you to it.

Throwing caution to the wind you strode forward, your pace hurried this time and your eyes quickly scanned across some of the books. You couldn’t help but feel shocked. Whilst there was a huge collection of his Grandfather’s books, and a number of other crime novels of types, it was the colourful spines to your right that made your chest heave in delight. The entire Harry Potter collection. With a shaky hand you reached for The Philosopher’s Stone, noting the British version of the title, and opened the front page giving another gasp as you read the publishing details.

This was a first edition.  And from the date you also knew it would be one that contained the misprint errors. And as such, would be worth a small fortune.

“See something you like?” that familiar voice hit your ears and you gave a little shriek, jumping around, clutching the book to your chest to avoid dropping it.

“I’m sorry.” You hastily began to apologise “I was just…erm…”

“It’s ok.” He assured you, crossing towards you. Once more he encroached into your personal space and you felt the blades of your shoulders press into the shelf behind you. “Harry Potter fan?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “Didn’t think they’d be your type of thing.

“They’re not really.” He shrugged “I’m a collector. Everything on the shelves, well they’re all first or limited editions, so worth a lot.”

“Figures.” You mumbled, turning round and slotting the book back into the space it had come from. As you did you felt him push up behind you, his hands on your hips, the unmistakable feel of his hard on dug into the lower part of your back and you fought to stop yourself shuddering. He was after pay-back for allowing you to leave your prison.

“Did you like the house?” he asked, brushing your hair off your neck.

“Yes.” You answered politely, your voice catching a little as he placed a kiss to the crook of your shoulder.

“You know, it could all be yours sweetheart if you just stopped fighting what you know you want” His kisses continued up your neck as his words whirled around your brain and you were back to where you had been in the kitchen. It felt good. And that disgusted you.

“Did you enjoy making breakfast?” he whispered, his lips by your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, your voice barely there.

“Show me how much.” His teeth nipped at your lobe, his hips grinding forward and you swallowed and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted but as you turned to face him you had an idea. One which would save you being fucked no doubt over the desk or on the hard looking couch.

With a lick of your lips you looked at him and sank slowly to your knees, taking his sweats with you. His hard cock sprang free, slapping his lower abs and you reached out, grasping it in your hand.

“Fuck, yeah baby…” Ransom hissed as you moved your head forwards and took him in your mouth.

You pulled out all the moves, you took him as deep as you could, gagging a little as he wasn’t a small man. You kept your hand firmly on the base of his cock, you hollowed your lips, you swirled your tongue around his shaft and he let out a little groan his hand fisting in your hair as his hips bucked forwards.

“Jesus, I knew your mouth was smart but…” he panted, looking down at you. You raised your eyes to look at his as he bit his lip, his entire face contorted in pleasure…

Pleasure that was ruined by the sound of the doorbell.

 “What the fuck…” Ransom growled out, un-fisting his hand from her hair. “Who the fuck is that?”

He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, wide eyed. She was a mess, swollen lips, wet chin and dressed in nothing but her skimpy tank and shorts. With a frustrated growl, Ransom pulled his dick out of her mouth and grabbed his phone from the table to check the doorbell camera. His face blanched as he saw who it was.

“I don’t fucking believe it…” he mumbled, as she looked up at him.

“Who is it?” She asked, wiping her face, “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors, Hugh.”

Ransom might have been pre-occupied with the familiar face staring at him from his phone, but he still picked up on that 'Hugh' and he glared down at her. “No shit, and because we have a visitor, I'm gonna let that one slide. Get up.” She rose to her feet, blinking a little as he pulled off the thermal he was wearing and tossed it to her. “Put that on. No one gets to see you in silk but me.”

She blinked as she caught it, confusion spreading across her face. “Don’t you just want me to go-“

In a flash, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger and she winced, “If I wanted you downstairs I’d have said. So put the damn shirt on, and when he starts asking questions just remember what I said I could do to your family and friends.”

In complete complacency, he watched her slip his thermal over her head, her fingers barely peeking through the sleeves to fix her dishevelled hair. The material hit her mid-thigh and his eyes brows gave a flicker of approval before he walked to the entry and opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Pleasure to see you too, Mr. Drysdale..." that infuriating Southern drawl hit Ransom's ears with all the finesse of a cheese-grater. Benoit Blanc, without so much as a gesture of request, pushed past Ransom as he strode inside, stopping in the tiled entry, looking around.

"Do you have a warrant?" The man of the house snipped in his usual spiteful tone.

Blanc still didn’t reply, and Ransom rolled his eyes following him as he wandered down the hallway, stopping at the open door to the study. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."

Ransom stood behind Blanc, an infuriatingly warning glare sent his girl's way. He noted the way she was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed, hair tousled. She looked like a sex kitten, and maybe that was the idea. He warned her to sell it after all…

"Excuse me?” Y/N looked up at the two men in the doorway. 

Blanc stepped inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the same couch where she sat. "I've been looking for you, young lady. A lot of people are looking for you, you know Miss Y/L/N.”

“I errr…” she swallowed a little as she slowly got to her feet, her hands pulling the hem of the thermal down before she folded her arms across her chest, not in a defiant manner, but almost as if she was hugging herself “Did someone send you or…”

“No, nothing like that. You see, I heard you'd gone missing, and I knew you had a work connection to Mr. Drysdale, that, shall we say didn't go quite as planned. So when things started adding up, I thought to ask the man himself."

“Well, congratulations, this is one mystery you actually solved correctly, Sherlock. As you can see she’s here and she’s fine, and we were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind….” Ransom folded his arms, his eyes moving from hers to Blanc, who was irritatingly completely ignoring him, his gaze focussed intently on the woman who stood in front of him.

Ransom could see him take her in fully, now seeing the situation he may have just walked in on. She looked dishevelled and was missing crucial parts of her clothing, but she had no tears in her eyes, no markings looking to be of abuse or out of the ordinary. None that were visible anyway. Blanc’s gaze then dragged over to Ransom who was bare foot in joggers and still half aroused, which he did nothing to hide as he folded his arms over his naked chest.

Ransom held Blanc’s gaze, his chin jutting out defiantly, the detective only looking away when the lady of the hour spoke, her voice quiet, as she gave a small nod. "He’s right, I’m fine."

"Then why not tell your family where you are?”

“I err…” Y/N’s right hand gripped he cuff of the sweater sleeve tightly, “I just, well, I…”

Ransom could see that she was losing it and he knew he had to intervene. He walked over to her and placed an arm around her, kissing the top of her head lightly, "It's alright, Sweetheart. I know how he can be frustrating. We're doing nothing wrong."

With that he turned his gaze to the man in front of him, not even trying to hide the sneer of contempt that was crossing his face “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you Blanc.”

“Well, maybe Miss Y/L/N has some crayons hidden up her sleeve so to speak.” Blanc smiled innocently and Ransom felt the anger floor his system.

“You’re starting to really piss me off.” he snarled, “You barge into my home, without so much of an explanation…” his rant was stopped dead as Y/N placed her hand on his chest, palm splaying over his bare skin. Ransom swallowed at the touch of her fingers against his skin, firey hot just as they had been last night when they curled around his arms.

"Hey," she spoke and he looked down to see her giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but one that should be enough to convince the dumbass detective who was watching them. "It's okay." She then turned to Blanc as he held his hand up, palm open, speaking to Ransom.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating Mr. Drysdale, I'm merely enquiring after Miss Y/L/N’s wellbeing."

"I'm not here under duress if that's what you're thinking.” She spoke, clearing her throat. “Hu… Ra, we have had to keep our relationship private,” she stumbled on the right identity, settling for 'we'. Clearing her throat again and settling her nerves, she continued, "Mr. Blanc, as you well know, I'm reporter and his background has been less than stellar as of late. It no doubt would not look good for either of us if it had come to light. My reputation as a journalist would have been in tatters.”

“Well, lies and deception certainly go hand in hand when it comes to Mr. Drysdale...”

Ransom rolled his eyes dramatically “Change the record, Blanc. The static is a little loud.”

Blanc completely ignored him, his attention still on her. “So you caused all this worry, because of some…” he waved his hand in front of him, gesturing between the pair of them. 

Ransom’s arm curled round her even tighter, his fingers pressing into her hip and he felt her stiffen a little before she relaxed into his side and gave a small nod.

"Like I said, it wouldn’t have gone down well with my family, or my career.”

“Ahh, yes, your job, which you quit.” Blanc looked at her. “Yes, I spoke to your boss.” He answered her unasked question. “Why would you be so worried for your reputation as a journalist, if you’re not actually a journalist anymore?”

At that she took a deep breath “I quit the paper because my boss is an asshole. His antics on Halloween were a step too far. But that doesn’t mean I have no intentions of working ever again. I'm currently taking a long overdue sabbatical.”

Blanc studied her again, almost as if he was weighing something up and she once more began to fidget and Ransom decided he’d had enough.

"Okay, I’m done being polite,” Ransom moved his arm from around his girl and stepped towards Blanc, placing himself directly between the detective and the woman. “You've interrupted out little post brunch love affair and I’m horny, so…do you need help finding the door, or can your super sleuth skills figure the way back out of it on their own?”

“Miss Y/L/N?” Blanc spoke, his eyes locked onto Ransom’s. Ransom felt the nerve in his jaw twitch, the fact that Blanc wasn’t scared of him irritated him no end.

There was a pause and then her voice came clearly from behind him as she spoke, “If you'd be so kind as to not tell my family where I am, I'd appreciate it. I prefer this time without their unwanted opinion.”  Her voice was steady, measured almost. “You can tell them that you've found me, alive and well."

Blanc knew he wasn't welcome, he had proof of life and no reason to suspect foul play. He stood, his long wool coat falling into place around him. "Well, then I guess my work is done." He brushed passed Ransom and gave a quick quip, "I'm warning you...." 

"What was that?" His girl wondered. She'd heard him. 

"Have a nice day," Blanc nodded curtly “I’ll see myself out.”  

You watched the back of the detective as he left the large living room, Ransom following him to the doorway where he stood, arms folded, watching. The sound of Blanc’s feet on the tiles of the hallway grew fainter and fainter until eventually they stopped completely.  The latch of the door sounded and you fell to the closest thing you could sit on. Your while body shook with a chill that crept into your bones but not from the cold. No, you were sick to your stomach in fear and worry. The bile of deceit rose to your throat and had you not already spewed up your breakfast it would have most likely decorated the carpet of the study.  Instead, you swallowed down the sour bile as Drysdale approached you and you glanced up at him, blinking whilst he studied you for a second, his face passive. As you held his gaze, something akin to amusement flashed in his cold blue eyes and a twisted smirk spread across his face.

“Your acting skills certainly improved there along the way, at the end you were almost award worthy.” He drawled, his hands falling to his hips. “Even Meryl Streep would be jealous.”

"Fuck you," your voice quivered.

He arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on his features “Already played that game Sweetheart, and carry on back-chatting me and you’ll be back in the basement.”

"Wh... What?"

"You pulled through in the end there. It was a rough start, but you convinced Colonel Sanders that you were here on your own."

“Colonel Sanders?” You blinked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blanc. CSI KFC.” He replied. You were none the wiser as to what he was going on about and it must have shown on your face as he simply rolled his eyes. "Never mind...the point is, sweetheart, I'm in a good mood. And seeing as you behaved...”

"What?" Your voice was quiet, meek.

"If you shut that pretty little mouth for longer than a second, I'll explain." His tone was measured but you didn’t miss the underlying threat.

“Sorry.” Your eyes fell to the floor, your left hand worrying at your right.

“Eyes on me.” He barked and your head whipped up automatically and he smirked at you as you took a deep breath. “As I was saying, seeing as you were such a good girl, I thought I’d reward you, let you stay up here with me for the day.”

The notion shocked you. Your mouth went dry and you couldn't make sense of it. But then, the more you thought about it, the more his audacity irked you. He’d imprisoned you, used you, abused you…and now he was implying that staying in his company was a fucking reward.

“Wow, thanks…” you blurted before you could stop yourself, sarcasm lacing your tone. As soon as the words had slipped from your mouth you felt panic flood your system as he stepped towards you and reached out, his right hand curling around your throat.

"Don’t push me sweetheart.” His voice was low as his fingers squeezed the column of your neck, a reminder of how easily he could simply end it all whenever he chose. 

And just like that the softness that he had displayed with you earlier that morning was gone, and the shutters were back up. You swallowed hard, feeling the strain of your throat against his touch, his eyes now dark and full of that familiar angry lust and desire that chilled you from head to toe. Blanc had riled him, gotten underneath his skin, that was easy to see while your mouthy comments fuelled that ire. And as such, he needed an escape, an outlet.

And he was going to get it from you.

“Now on your knees and finish what you started."

**** Part 4

#murder he wrote #dark ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

[n1kolaiz]

THE GREAT FITZGERALD

thank u @dazaistabletop for getting me so interested in Fitzgerald's character. ur my favourite Fitz kinnie ok mwah( ˘ ³˘)♥

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald's novel— The Great Gatsby— was a love story that involved Jay Gatsby, whose mannerisms and characteristics appear to be quite similar to Fitzgerald in the Bungou Stray Dogs adaptation. I just finished reading The Great Gatsby so I thought I'd just make a comparison between the main protagonist of the novel and the main antagonist in BSD's Guild Arc.

Other than the fact that both Jay and Fitzgerald share similar character traits (ambitious, arrogant, and optimistic) the relationships Jay had with the other characters of the novel and the interactions that Fitzgerald had with the other characters of BSD are quite similar, too. I'll focus on three specific associations that both Fitzgerald and Jay experienced in a parallel manner:

Zelda Fitzgerald and Daisy Buchanan

Tom Buchanan

Louisa May Alcott and Nick Carraway

SPOILERS FOR THE GREAT GATSBY!

in case anyone hasn't read it but wants to :)

To avoid confusion, every time I mention Fitzgerald from here on out, I mean the character from BSD; I will specify my references if it comes to the author.

The Great Gatsby had its plot set around the time of the Roaring Twenties: the aftermath of World War I, the peak of socialite culture, and the growth of a prosperous economy and general wealth altogether.

The Roaring Twenties was also a time of luxurious pleasure and liquor, where people indulged themselves and got addicted to hedonism— the pursuit of gratification.

The Great Gatsby was actually written on the basis to prove how corrupt this age was, and the existence of such corruption was vaguely hinted by various factors, one of which included Jay Gatsby's actual source of income: being involved in the affairs of the black market. This proves that illegal activities were not uncommon around that time, as people did anything they could to achieve materialistic gains.

This isn't a history lesson, I promise.

Both Jay Gatsby and Fitzgerald had grown up in poverty and disliked the concept of being anything short of wealthy. They both worked extremely hard to attain financial abundance.

I presume that not everything they did was actually legal when it came to gaining money. As mentioned before, Jay was involved in criminal activities which founded the basis of his wealth, while Fitz once mentioned that in order to own a gun, he had to kill 4 people. He goes on to tell us that he ended up owning that specific gun's manufacturer eventually.

Daisy Buchanan and Zelda Fitzgerald.

The Great Gatsby is actually centered around Jay Gatsby's rather obsessive infatuation with Daisy.

Daisy was a beautiful lady with a incredibly charming nature— she didn't have much trouble with attracting many men back then before she got married to Tom Buchanan, the antagonist of the story and the rival of Jay Gatsby.

"Her voice was full of money," he said suddenly.

That was it. I'd never understood before. It was full of money— that was the inexhaustible chair that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it. the cymbals' song of it... High in a white palace the King's daughter, the golden girl...

Daisy and Jay Gatsby fell in love right before he was sent off to war and a few years before she met Tom. Before they were separated, Jay's dream of gaining wealth and status was primarily flamed by his intention of reaching Daisy's social ranking in order to be worthy of her love.

Initially, because of how passionate he was about his love for her, Jay lied to Daisy about his wealth. It was only after the War did he actually gain the riches he aimed for. By the time he did achieve his monetary goals, Daisy had married Tom already. Consequently, Jay hosted a bunch of lavish parties in order to gain her attention, prove himself and his love for her, and ultimately, win her back.

Jay perceived Daisy as a literal angel, void of any flaw whatsoever. He even tells Nick, the main character, that the fact that numerous men got romantically involved with such a lady just increased her value altogether.

But what gave it an air of breathless intensity was that Daisy lived there— it was as casual a thing to her as his tent out at camp was to him. There was a ripe mystery about it, a hint of bedrooms, of gay and radiant activities taking place through its corridors, and of romances that were not musty and laid away already in lavender but fresh and breathing and redolent of this year's shining motor cars and of dances whose flowers were scarcely withered. It excited him too that many men had already loved Daisy— it increased her value in his eyes. He felt their presence all about the house, pervading the air with the shades and echoes of still vibrant emotions.

As the story unfolded, Daisy's character was torn apart for a proper, more brutally realistic perspective of her true character, revealing a shallow, selfish lady who solely placed her interest in money and luxury, the things which she often took refuge in when things went wrong. As the plot developed itself, the actuality that Jay fell in love with the idea of Daisy, instead of Daisy herself, was much more evident. And it took quite some time for him to discover and acknowledge the truth.

Fitzgerald's love for Zelda was very apparent, too, except that it seemed more genuine and pragmatic. Not much is speculated about Fitz and Zelda's relationship in the Guild Arc, but his love for her was very deep, as everything he did was for her and their deceased daughter.

Side note: Fitzgerald (the author) based Daisy's character partially on Zelda, as both women were brought up in wealthy families and took a general liking to lifestyles revolving around money and ease.

Fitzgerald was in love with Zelda, a woman plagued by a debilitating illness. In The Great Gatsby, Jay was in love with a woman who was plagued by the deceptive addiction of self-satisfaction gained by pleasure and whatnot. Zelda was impaired by an mental illness, while Daisy was intoxicated by the security of money and prestige. This is an abstract suggestion though. Personally, that's how I interpreted this correlation when it came to examining these dynamics in their respective universes.

Tom Buchanan

As mentioned before, Thomas Buchanan was Daisy's husband and Jay's rival who had similar characteristics in matters of personality. The Toms in both book and anime were arrogant and cunning, which pretty much vouches for their selfishness.

In the book, Tom is supposedly the love of Daisy's life, except that she just married him for his money instead of waiting for Gatsby. Then again, Tom was involved in a love affair outside his marriage with a lady named Myrtle Wilson. Tom cheated on Daisy by getting involved with Myrtle. On the other hand, Daisy was unfaithful to Tom by keeping her love and relationship with Jay a secret from him.

The climax of the story partly revolves around Myrtle dying in a hit-and-run car accident. The grand twist was that Daisy was the one driving the car, and the car actually belonged to Gatsby. Because the car belonged to Gatsby, George Wilson, the husband of Myrtle, was bent on revenge and tracked down the car. He ended up killing Jay Gatsby, and soon after that, he killed himself.

It was quite a scandal, but Daisy estranged herself from such a tedious matter. In fact, when Jay died, she did not even attend his funeral. Tom was under the impression that Gatsby was the one who killed his mistress, not Daisy, his wife. Either ways, Nick described them in a way that sums up what became of them after Jay's death:

They were careless people, Tom and Daisy— they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made...

It's interesting to note that in chapter 45 of the BSD manga, Tom appears as the antagonist who was later found guilty of murdering his employee, but the blame was originally put on T.J Eckleburg, the inventor of the Eyes of God.

Side note: T.J. Eckleburg was actually an optician who appeared on a billboard advertisement in the novel. This billboard was used as a personification by Nick Carraway, which was meant to embody the representation of a displeased overseer who observed the events that unfolded before him. The Eyes of God has a similar concept: scrutinising everything with an accuracy of 97%. It's a personal speculation, but the Eyes of God was proven to be of utmost importance in the Cannibalism Arc when it came to capturing Fyodor Dostoevsky. Likewise, T.J. Eckleburg's eyes showed how corruption and misconduct never escaped his judgmental visage.

sorry about the quality of the manga panels ;-;

In the manga, Fitzgerald manages to triumph over Tom by betraying his trust altogether in order to obtain the ownership of the Eyes of God and Tom's company. This stands in contrast to what became of Jay in the novel, but the protagonist got what he wanted in this universe.

Keep in mind that Fitzgerald didn't act according to fulfil what justice required; it was purely business. Just like Jay Gatsby put on the facade of a plain, rich man who was really just bootlegging his way to opulence, Fitzgerald wasn't afraid to betray someone's trust to get what he wanted.

Nick Carraway and Louisa May Alcott

If I were to pick a character that represented Louisa May Alcott in BSD from the book, I'd pick the narrator himself: Nick Carraway. Again, this is my personal interpretation, so the association between these two characters is just my personal opinion.

Nick Carraway was known as the more reserved, cynical protagonist compared to Jay. The both of them developed a cordial friendship as the story progressed.

Nick initially took a liking to Gatsby, who was his neighbour. The enigmatic aura Gatsby emitted called for Nick's attention, and in the same way, Gatsby reciprocated his interest in Nick by making the effort to acquaint himself with him.

He had one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you may come across four or five times in life. It faced, or seemed to face, the whole external world for an instant and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favor. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself.

There were a few times which suggests that Nick didn't like the way Gatsby acted or spoke. Nevertheless, Nick was the only one who stuck with Gatsby until the end.

"They're a rotten crowd," I shouted across the lawn. "You're worth the whole damn bunch put together.

(This was the last thing Nick said to Jay before he died.)

At first, Nick was intrigued by Jay's mystical nature and peculiar idiosyncrasies, but found that Gatsby was a very strange, but 'morally bad' man. However, over time, Nick became one of the few who managed to recognise Gatsby's idealistic ambitions; he saw through all the fame and wealth and found a mere human being capable of being entrapped by love's snares. Basically, he understood Gatsby, despite disagreeing with his actions and even his behaviour at times.

As for Louisa, well, it is a known fact that she was loyal to Fitzgerald because of how much she respected and trusted him.

Both Nick and Louisa were intelligent, witty people with generally nice, honest, and reserved dispositions. Their self-contained demeanours make it very easy to get along with the more exurbent/dominant personas of Gatsby and Fitzgerald. So in the event where each pair was isolated from the rest of the world, they had each other to depend on.

Next morning I sent the butler to New York with a letter to Wolfsheim, which asked for information and urged him to come out on the next train. That request seemed superfluous when I wrote it. I was sure he’d start when he saw the newspapers, just as I was sure a there’d be a wire from Daisy before noon – but neither a wire nor Mr. Wolfsheim arrived; no one arrived except more police and photographers and newspaper men. When the butler brought back Wolfsheim’s answer I began to have a feeling of defiance, of scornful solidarity between Gatsby and me against them all.

Such a dynamic created a close bond of trust. Just as Nick was not hesitant to stick by Gatsby's side, Louisa went to great extents just to return Fitzgerald back to his former leading position and work together with him.

Side note: Nick Carraway is suggested to have the INTP personality type, while Louisa is most likely an INFP. Both these personalities are strikingly similar in many ways. They are individualistic in thinking and described as 'seekers' of their place in the world. If you're interested in a more detailed comparison, check this post out

Alright, that's about it for my speculations; I hope they weren't too messy. Thank you so much for reading!

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

- Nick Carraway, The Great Gatsby

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