Maedayarchive - Charmae

shhh… problematic favs ❤︎︎

❥ joseline hernandez, tamar braxton, nicki minaj, kim kardashian, bella hadid, the clermont twins

all about the hairrrr

no boys allowed! — rafe cameron

no boys allowed at the sorority house after 7 pm. of course, rafe sneaks into your window a couple of days a week.

content — fluff, smut, p in v  w.c — 2.7 masterlist

monday — 11:32 p.m.

being in a sorority was your favorite thing in the world. the sisterhood, the living arrangements, the benefits. it was everything you could wish for and more. you even loved your president and rush chair despite their sometimes strict-ish rules. it wasn't too bad; good grades, good behaviour, mandatory attendace at all chapter meetings, events, and rituals, dress a certain way, talk a certain way. blahblahblah. those were all things that had been ingrained in you long before you came to university but the no boys after seven o'clock rule? that one was a little tougher to swallow. a girl has needs.

you weren't sure how quiet you were being, you never could really focus when rafe had you like this, ass arched up, face roughly stuffed into your frilly off-white anthropologie pillow. you could vaguely hear the moans coming out of your drooling mouth but most, if not all of your focus was on rafe pounding his thick cock into your gummy walls, abusing your aching pussy, "quiet, baby..emily will rip me a new one if she hears us," rafe's voice barely broke through the sex haze you were in as you rutted into your sheets.

how could he ask you to be more quiet but fuck you even harder? "rafe..! mm, p-please.." you blubbered, tears in your eyes as his hands gripped your waist still and kept you from sinking into the bed from sheer lack of strength. he let out a low groan when you pushed back into him at every thrust, "that's it, that's my girl."

“oh god, oh god, rafey..!” you whimpered when rafe’s tip hit your cervix and slammed against it over and over driving you completely silly. he buried himself deep inside of you whilst holding your hips and relentlessly pounded into your sweet cunt. “doin’ so good, baby.” he grunted against your neck as your cunt sucked him in eagerly. “look at that pussy suckin’ me in..”

his hips drove against you, fucking into your hole and hitting that fuzzy spot that made you delirious every time. rafe had to shove your head into the pillow to muffle your whines that were only getting louder as he drilled into you.

just then, a quiet knock on your door. "hey, you okay in there?"

your eyes widened, panic taking over your body when you recognised the rush chair, aaliyah's voice. fuck, fuck, you were screwed. even more screwed considering rafe was still pounding your pussy relentlessly. "rafe.." you whispered with the hope that it would sound like a warning but it just sounded like the most pathetic, quiet whine.

"mm..mhm..y-yes!" you cried, your eyes fluttering from the pleasure and you arched your back even more, gripping your pillows for support.

"you sure, girl? you don't need a medic, right? because steffi was vomitting yesterday so we had a medic for that and i just don't want the board to think we're milking all their resources for—"

"yes!" you screamed out, the feeling of pure ectascy taking over your body and your vision went all white. you could hear rafe quietly groaning as he pumped his load into you only a second after you came.

"yes, you do need a medic?"

tuesday — 9:08 p.m.

it wasn't usually every day. the sneaking in. this week was just going to be a stressful one, for the both of you. you had a midterm in the morning, class from 8 to 6 on thursday and you had to squeeze a manicure inbetween one of those classes so you wouldn't even get to eat lunch with rafe (tragic), friday morning rafe was going away until saturday morning which you truly saw as a crime against you, saturday you had a mandatory sorority event that would take the whole day but atleast rafe was coming as your date and then sunday rafe had a frat thing where you could unfortunately not be his date because it was members only. so, basically, everyone hates you and the world is against you.

"rafe, i have to study..!" you gripped the edges of your desk and planted your feet to the ground as rafe tried to tug you away from your notes and laptop. "you've been studying all day, it's time for a break." he said firmly and his arms came around your waist, lifting you from your chair. you almost screamed but closed your mouth upon realising emily would come running and see rafe here two hours past curfew.

rafe threw you onto your bed in the least graceful way he could and you bounced into the pillows with a gasp. "it's clear you've never studied for a statistics exam. breaks don't exist in the land of statistics." you say and roll your eyes when he sits on your bed with this stupid smile on his face that made it impossible not to love him.

"i had statistics in my first year. pretty sure the prof had a thing for me." he laid his head down on princess peach's head. not her actual head. a plushie of her head which he was crushing with his even more massive head. "mm." you hummed and gave him a nasty once-over. he laughed so hard you had to smash the nearest pillow on his face with wide eyes. "rafe, quiet!" you hissed, with your body almost toppled over him with how quick you jumped to silence him.

he was still smiling when you removed the pillow 10 seconds later. "you enjoyed that." he said and he was absolutely right, you did enjoy that. "it felt very liberating to shut a white man up, yes." you smiled like you had just done something to be truly proud of. "well, that was my break—" you were halfway across the bed when rafe grabbed your ankle and tugged you right back where you were. luckily the sheets muffled your shriek. "you're going to break your brain, doll." he sat up and pulled you between his legs.

"i'm going to break your bones if i fail my exam tomorrow." the threat was empty, hollow, transparent even. on a bad day, you couldn't even open a jar of peanut butter and you knew the two-ish hours you still wanted to study probably wouldn't make much of a difference BUT what if? what if maybe? just maybe it did? then you'd blame rafe and you'd be forced to bring harm to this beautiful boy you loved so dearly. just because he wanted you to rest instead of working yourself to death.

"in that case, my bones are fine." he murmured pulling you against his chest, his warm hands slowly travelling up your blue loveshackfancy pyjamas. your head dropped onto his chest as his hand gently cupped your tits, the calluses on his palm brushung against your sensitive, hardened nipple. he kissed along your ear, the tip of his nose grazes your earlobe before quietly asking, "you just need some rest, don't you?" your hand rested lightly on his arm as he fondled your tit in his hand and you sighed with a subtle nod, body melting like putty in his hands.

his other hand travelled down to your pyjama shorts, his fingers teasing your clothed slit, pushing gently against that warmth yet making sure to not push all the way in just yet. your back arched, a whimper escaping your lips at the fleeting feeling. "rafe.." you whined, eyes fluttering, bracing your neck and he hummed leaving kisses along your exposed skin. "n-need you." you murmured, your hand still on his forearm, praying he'd just slip it down your shorts already.

"yeah? you need me? my sweet girl needs my fingers?" your eyes close and the fluttering that takes over your body makes you wonder if you didn't just cum at just his words. it wouldn't surprise you.

"help me out, sweetheart." he says and you were confused for a moment until your eyes opened to his fingers inches away from your lips. you didn't hesitate, eased his digits into your mouth in desperate need to just empty your brain, stop the overflow of thoughts and this was the perfect solution.

your tongue coated his fingers in spit and held onto his wrist to slowly push his fingers deeper down your throat. you whined around his fingers, pupils dilated, completely lost in the motion and rafe's hand comes up to wrap around your throat, pushing up just slightly so your head was tilted up giving him the perfect view of you greedily sucking his fingers. "shit, baby, that's perfect.." he sighs and you can feel him hardening against your ass, you have this burning desire to push back, to grind slowly and drive him insane but you feel too weak to do anything, focus on anything with his fingers inches deep in your mouth.

the moment ended entirely too soon but you had no time to utter out a whiny complain because his hand was down your shorts and fingers between your folds, grazing your slit and thumbing your clit. you gasped and arched away from him the moment his thumb made contact with your slit. "c'mere." he pulled you right back in, flesh against his chest. he made sure your legs were nicely spread apart before he started circling your clit, "rafe..rafe!" you moaned, head dropping on his shoulder as your hips bucked against his fingers.

he focused his attention on your clit, thumb rubbing circles on the sensitive nub that absolutely drove you. you writhe in his arms, his hand covering your mouth so you didn't alert anyone with the whines coming out of your mouth.

you were constantly trying to close your legs and then spread them wide again, unsure of what you really wanted. rafe made sure to keep them open. "oh, god, rafe, god!" you cried and a gasp escaped your lips when you felt his fingers push inside of you. your toes curled on the pink bedsheets, fist tightened around the princess peach plushie rafe was resting on earlier.

rafe kissed down your neck, sucking on your skin and the pleasure from both his lips and his fingers made it impossible for you to think straight at all, you whined, writhing against his fingers, broken moans coming from you. "f-fu.." you stammered and gripped rafe's wrist, "f-fu..dge." you cried, eyes rolling back and you vaguely heard rafe's quiet chuckle at your inability to curse even in these moments due to years of sorority drilling. "m' close.." you whined feeling his fingers thrust into the deepest parts of you, digits angling just perfectly whilst his fingers gave your clit all the attention. "gonna cum for me, princess?" he rasped and you moaned, nodding furiously and pushing your hips against his fingers, "please, p-please..!" you felt that overwhelming sensation, the stars in your vision, the arch of your back and then your pussy was creaming all over his fingers.

you went limp in his arms, exhaustion taking over completely as rafe slowly pulled his fingers out. he slowly hoisted you up, arms under your thighs and on your back. "where r we goin'.." you mumbled sleepily, "the bathroom for a shower, baby." he says and you were shaking your head knowing very well that there was no way you were going to stand on your two legs right now. "ah, so you'd rather sleep all sticky in a dirty bed?" he asked and you stiffened, immediately shaking your head.

shower it is.

 thursday — 7:09 p.m.

he was here again but today was seriously, totally justifiable. yesterday after your midterm, he had class and then he had to pack so you didn't see him at all. then today had been a marathon of misery: classes from 8 to 6, a meltdown in the middle of the day over your botched nail set—because you’d been too timid to correct your nail tech—and now you were stuck with these nails for weeks. you’d cried, teary-eyed and embarrassed, brushing off questions about your distress because admitting to crying over a nail set seemed absurd.

on top of that, the awful weather wrecked your hair just two days before an event and three days before wash day, leaving you utterly defeated. you’d called rafe in tears, your voice breaking for barely two minutes before he was on his way, determined to make his girl feel better.

now, you’ve claimed your rightful spot on rafe's lap, straddling him with your arms wrapped securely around his neck. it started innocently enough—soft kisses and tender words murmured into your ear—but quickly escalated. his hands settled on your hips, guiding them in a slow, languid figure-eight motion.

his lips moved against yours, soft and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world. it didn’t take long for him to coax your lips apart, drawing him closer. you focused on the sensations grounding you: the feel of his hair between your fingers, shorter at the back, and the way he groaned when you tugged. the fresh, clean scent of lemons and lavender lingered on his skin, a sign that he’d showered after the gym—he’d never ever come to your room without making sure he was clean.

when you finally pulled back for air, your breaths mingled, and his forehead rested against yours, his patience infinite as he waited for you to catch your breath. “you’re tired,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. and he was right. you were exhausted—up since 8 a.m., crying once already without the reprieve of a nap (criminal), and now it was 7 p.m. but you didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to let today end because tomorrow, rafe would be gone.

“m’not,” you whispered, stubbornly shaking your head. his eyes narrowed knowingly, and he began to trace slow, calming patterns along your spine. you peppered his lips with soft kisses, each one met with gentle reciprocation, but your resolve didn’t last long. your eyelids grew heavy, and eventually, your head dropped onto his chest, his warmth lulling you into much-needed rest.

sunday — 10:11 p.m.

apart from sex with rafe, wash day was probably the most intensive part of your whole week. it was not only hard on your arms but also very, very time-consuming. you enjoyed it—most of the time. it could feel therapeutic and you did love getting clean but then other times it was frustrating and tiring and you just wanted to give up and shave your head. you didn't though.

it was in the middle of rinsing your hair that rafe invited himself into the bathroom. you could see him through the foggy shower glass closing the toilet lid and sitting down. "you're taking too long."

you rolled your eyes and slid open the shower door, "i should just shave my head, right? i could totally pull off the britney look." your hand reached for your towel and you wrapped it around your body tightly before getting out of the shower and slipping into your fuzzy slippers. "or jada pinkett smith." you stared at yourself in the mirror trying to imagine yourself bald and rafe scoffed, "you'd have a mental breakdown within ten minutes of doing something like that."

you couldn't dispute that. "you would still love me, right? if i was bald like britney and jada?" you looked at rafe, brows raised and he hesitated for just a second, not even—a millisecond. you gasped at him and violently threw three rolls of toilet paper at his head. he held his hands out, "woah, no, no! i was just imaginging it, baby, fuck." he stood up, pulling you into his chest even though it was getting him all wet. "of course, i'd still love you."

you watched him through the mirror, arms crossed over your chest, completely unconvinced by his confession. naturally, he started leaving kisses along your shoulders and neck, making sure to not leave a single spot unkissed. "i'd choose you every time, over and over." he quietly says, those blue eyes boring into yours and you’re really not sure how it happened. it just..kind of did.

10:19 p.m.

"you're so goddamn tight, fuck," rafe grunted as he thrusted his cock inside of you, pounding into your tight cunt over and over. "p-please! h-harder.." your voice was high and breathless, head resting against the cool sink, holding onto the edges tightly. rafe could hardly believe how much you were clenching around him.

“rafe! rafey!” you whined, hoping your voice didn’t carry despite how loud you were being. your head rested against the damp sink, fingers curled around the sink as rafe pounded into your cunt, snapping his hips relentlessly. “my needy girl..”

“y-your girl..” you repeated with misty eyes as rafe’s thick cock slowly brought you closer and closer to that fuzzy place. “come on, doll. cum for me, sweetheart..” rafe fucked you until you creamed all over his cock, legs trembling and barely conscious.

masterlist

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Title: 𝙳𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚐ä𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 [8]

Pairing: Dark!Ransom x Reader, Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Summary: Your husband’s twin brother has always made you uncomfortable, and after two years of marriage, you finally find out why. 

Warnings: Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Stalking, Kidnapping, Basement-wife, Gaslighting, Manipulation, Breeding kink, Smut, Darkfic, Dead Dove: Do not eat!

Word Count: 3,572

A/N: poor reader. things are not going as well as she’d hoped. we’re honestly in the home stretch, i anticipate another 2-3 chapters before we’ve arrived at our conclusion! (i also have some plans for a short prequel, so stay tuned!) bottom divider by @firefly-graphics

You stare at your husband, open mouthed as he shuts the door behind him. On the tray in his hands is breakfast, and most of all—coffee. Real coffee, swirling gently in the fancy drip . You can’t think of a single thing to say as he moves past you to set the tray down on the table. 

The scent of his cologne makes your knees tremble, it’s so familiar, so him. You haven’t seen Ransom in person in so long it feels like some sort of trick. You look down at his hands as he arranges the plates, looking for the indents left by Lloyd’s signature rings—but there is only his wedding band, sitting on his ring finger. He looks up at you. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Sweetheart.” 

Your tongue is sticky in your dry mouth. “I did.” 

Ransom isn’t as good at pretending he’s unaffected—not as good as Lloyd. Brief upset flashes across his features before it’s replaced by determined placidity. It makes the rage simmering in your belly flare up even hotter at the sight of him. You’re angrier at him than you are at Lloyd. It isn’t logical, you know, to feel somehow more betrayed by your husband than his twin, but you do. You suppose Lloyd owed you less than the man with whom you had shared every hope, every dream for your future. 

“Let’s eat something, at least,” he replies at last. “You can hate me on a full stomach.” Reluctantly, you sit down at the table. You wonder if all your meals will be taken like this now, now that contact has been re-established, like some sort of strange exposure therapy. Ransom pours himself a mug of dark coffee and then a matching one for you. You don’t reach for it, though, not until you see him drink from his own cup. 

The plate before you is loaded up with fresh fruits—your favorites: cut grapes, melons, slices of kiwi—and beneath that is a fully loaded waffle, topped with fluffy whipped cream. You spear a forkful of eggs and chew as you stare pointedly at the mug in front of you instead of at him. 

Ransom isn’t like Lloyd, he doesn’t force conversation. He simply sits there across from you, eating breakfast in your prison like it’s the most ordinary thing in the entire world. 

“How could you do this?” You vomit up the question as you tremble, unable to swallow another bite. “How?” 

“We love you so much,” he begins, and you have to resist the urge to throw the plate at his head, food and all. “So fucking much.” Ransom reaches across the table to grasp your hand. “This is the only way this works, Sweetheart.” He lifts his hand to your cheek. You hate that his reassurance feels good, that you’re tempted to press your face into the palm of his hand the way you used to. A sob tears free from your throat. 

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t—”

“Do you even know what love is?” There is a cold edge to Ransom’s voice that’s unfamiliar to you, not because you haven’t heard it before, but because he never adopts that tone with you—never. “Love is doing for others what they cannot do for themselves.” You almost want to cringe away from his gaze. “You taught me that.” As his words increase in intensity you actually try to, only to have Ransom grip your chin with his free hand.“Even if it hurts.”

He sits back in his chair, and sips his coffee. “Now finish your breakfast, Sweetheart. I have a surprise.” The word surprise immediately gets your hackles up, and you can feel your stomach churning. 

“A surprise? What is it?” Ransom winks at you. 

“Eat up.” 

You force your way through the fruit—it’s sweet and ripe but it tastes like mush now as you anxiously chew and swallow. Ransom had always been a good gift-giver. It’s one of the things you’d valued about your husband, his attention to detail, his heart. That little piece of him he’d let you see, the part of him he guarded, held like a wounded bird in his cupped hands. The part of him that memorized your birthday three months in and threw a half-birthday party because he couldn’t wait that long to give you the present he’d gotten for you—a trip to Paris, to see the Louvre. Which one of these people is your husband, you wonder, watching him watch you. Which one of them is real, which is created? 

Or had you ever really known him at all?

When you’re done eating, Ransom hands you a little plastic baggie, containing an assortment of pills. A few you recognize—your pre-natal vitamins, one of your prescribed supplements—but there are some you don’t. You glare down at his offered hand with narrowed eyes before crossing your arms. 

“I’m not taking those.” You’re expecting Ransom to fight you—hell, you’re half expecting him to pin you down and force them down your throat. But he doesn’t. All he does is purse his lips, and place them down on the table. 

“We’ll revisit that.”

“We’re not revisiting anything!” You hiss. “I am not. Taking those.” Ransom steeples his fingers beneath his chin and raises an eyebrow. 

“You had no problem taking them when you couldn’t see them, Sweetheart.” Your stomach rolls. “It was my suggestion,” he sighs, fingering the little packet. “I thought you would appreciate the agency.”

“You’re still drugging me.” 

“Sweetheart they’re not roofies.” His flippancy somehow makes you angrier. “It’s all the things you were taking—perhaps a little altered for your condition, but nothing untoward. Your Celexa for your anxiety. Prenatal supplements, vitamins.” 

“I’m not taking them.” 

“Fine.” He picks the little baggie back up and places it in his pocket. Instead of tacit, clever threats like Lloyd, Ransom simply gets up. You look up at him in surprise, almost forgetting to be angry. 

“Y-you’re not going to force me?” You ask, shocked. Your husband pushes his chair back against the table. He looks sad. Really sad, like he recognizes the weight of what has changed between you. 

“No, baby. I’m not.” He turns towards the door. “But I’m not going to stay, either.” Your eyes go wide with fear.

“W-wait, why? I—”

“You’re upset. I understand, I do.” For his part, Ransom looks realistically disappointed, like he wanted things to turn out differently than they have. A sad smile flits across his face. “But baby if we’re going to build back what we had, build it stronger, you’re going to have to think about more than just yourself.”

You feel a pang of hurt in your chest at his accusation. “I’m not selfish! If any

thing—”

“Threatening to leave me? To take the baby?” Ransom shoots you a cold, disappointed look. “What did you tell me, Sweetheart? The baby will never know my name? What would you call that if not selfish?” You swallow thickly. 

That day feels so long ago now, though in truth you suppose it’s been nearly a month since you’d figured it out and everything had broken open and fallen all to pieces. It’s strange to think that that was reality in the same way that this is—that your physical body no longer occupies a world that exists only in your memories, when everything was perfect. 

“I’m going to give you some time to relax. Maybe It’s too soon.” Ransom shakes his head. “I’ll be back when you’re ready.” Your chest feels tight at his declaration. Alone? Again? You curl your fists into tight balls beneath the table, nails digging into your palms. 

“Don’t.” 

“Oh? And why should I stay? You hate me, you won’t take your medicine—”

“I’ll take it.” You mumble, and Ransom turns back around, a soft, surprised look on his face. You don’t want to go back to being alone, back to the endless hours of silence, your food delivered while you slept or bathed, to reciting movie lines just to have something to listen to—

“What?”

“I—I’ll take them. Please—you don’t…” You close your eyes.. “You don’t know what it’s like to be in here alone, day after day.”  It’s torture. The words hang unspoken from the tails of the ones you’re brave enough to voice. Tears press against your closed lids as you try unsuccessfully to keep them back. He sighs. 

“Oh Baby.” 

You hate him —you hate both of them, so much it seems to fill up every inch of you. So why do you want him to stay? Why does it feel familiar and right and good when he tucks you beneath his chin as you sob? You’d managed to hold them in with Lloyd, but you can’t with Ransom. He’s too familiar, your body knows him, thinks it’s safe with him, even when it’s not. But it’s hard not to feel that same security when he sweeps you into his arms and sits against the window with you as you whimper and cry, pressing your face into his chest. 

Ransom rocks you back and forth, rubbing circles on your back through the cotton dress. You aren’t sure what he says to you as he does so, mumbling muddy praise and promises into your hair. It’s almost worse than that day at the villa—you hadn’t been this hopeless then, this trapped. You’d thought you could leave then, that you could simply walk away from the snare they had set for you, though you never really could.

What other end could there have been?

You aren’t sure how long you sit there with Ransom, your heaving, hysterical sobs becoming hiccoughs. Listlessly you stare out at the waves, dragging the back of your hand across your puffy eyes. Wordlessly, he hands you the little plastic bag of pills. You take it from him without a fuss, tear open the corner and dump them into the palm of your hand. You consider them for a moment before lifting them to your mouth and swallowing them dry. 

—

The surprise, as it turns out, is books. 

Ransom brings in a brightly colored bag from the hallway as you sit sniffling on the bed, still wiping at your puffy eyes. It almost brings you to tears again as you pull out the tissue paper to reveal the prizes inside. They’re all books you’ve never read before but had been meaning to, even going so far as to put a list of them on the fridge in the apartment you shared with Ransom. Frankenstein. Hound of the Baskervilles. The Shining.

“You read my list.” 

“Of course I did,” Ransom says, pressing a kiss to your temple before sitting beside you on the edge of the bed. “It’s been up there for months.” He teases. “I thought we could read them together, like we did in college. Since you’ve been so lonely.” Something goes tight and achy in your chest at the memory of it, you and Ransom cuddled together on your narrow dorm room bed as you read him passages of Wuthering Heights and Catcher in the Rye. It’s so easy to picture it now, though you had not thought of them for months—maybe years. Your husband just a few years younger, draping his own sweater over your shoulders. 

I like when it smells like you, he’d say when you’d stammer about lotion or perfume, pressing it into your hands anyway. 

“I’d like that.” 

It’s almost like being home again, wrapping yourself in the soft comforter on the bed as Ransom begins to read. Is it so wrong, you wonder, to want to go back to when things were ordinary and perfect? Before you knew your husband and his brother felt something deeper than love, deeper than obsession for you—ownership, perhaps. You don’t want this new knowledge, as insane as that seems. You don’t want to know that your family is dependent on them, that their lives rely on your marriage in ways you never could have foreseen. Your father’s business, Nathalie’s school—all things they would lose the instant your relationship dissolved. 

And as Ransom reads, it’s almost easy to pretend you don’t have it, to close your eyes and just… listen. You’re half asleep when he shifts you into his arms, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. You begin to stir, pushing at his chest, but he hums softly. 

“Just let me have this, Sweetheart. You can still hate me when I’m done.” Your husband holds you to his chest, stroking your hair until you fall asleep. He holds you like that for a long time, listening to the sound of your breathing. With a sigh, Ransom lowers you down to the mattress. He’s arranging your books on the bedside table when the sound of the keypad draws his attention.

“You’re bringing her presents already?” Lloyd drawls from the threshold. “I thought you said she wasn’t ready.” Ransom rolls his eyes. He knows what jealousy looks like well enough on his own face to know it on his brother’s. 

“I said that a week ago,” he says softly. “And keep your voice down. You know we had to lower the dose on the sedative.” Lloyd leans against the bedpost, watching as Ransom fusses over you. “Besides. You got to see her yesterday.” He shoots a glare at his older brother. “You took a fucking bath with her. You always have to be fucking first, don’t you?” 

It’s Lloyd’s turn to roll his eyes. “I don’t interfere in your relationship, you don’t talk shit about mine.” He smooths a hand down your cheek. “I called the doctor. He said he’ll be here Monday.” 

Ransom nods. “Good.” A small smile crosses his lips. “I think she’ll be excited to see the baby.” He rests a hand on the ever-so-slight curve of your belly, and Lloyd snorts. “With our luck, it’ll be twins.” You shift, mumbling something in your sleep as your face twitches. Lloyd kisses your forehead. 

“Shh, baby. M’right here.” His hand replaces Ransom’s on your belly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

—

“A doctor?” You stare at the two of them incredulously. “Here?” Lloyd scoffs at your shock. 

“Come on, Princess. It’s not like we’re in space.” He pats you affectionately on your hip. “Besides, you’re due for a checkup. Don’t you want to see your little nugget?” His words twist your stomach. You had scheduled an ultrasound for when you returned from Mykonos—not knowing, foolishly, perhaps, that you never would. I wonder what they told Dr. Pashik. 

Ransom and Lloyd are wrapped around you like snakes; your husband curled around you from behind, while Lloyd has draped himself across your lap, tracing circles on the exposed skin of your thigh where the dress has ridden up. They’d come into your room sometime early that morning while you’d still been mostly asleep, taking up residence on either side of you while you mumbled groggily. Of course Ransom and Lloyd had not come empty handed, bringing with them more gifts; books, card games, even a portable device they told you you were allowed to watch movies on. Of course, upon discreet investigation there were only streaming apps installed on it, no browser, nor any way to reach the outside world. It was password locked for extra security, which neither one of your lover-turned-captors had yet supplied you. 

You rest a hand on your tummy. “I am excited,” you say finally. “I guess… I’m surprised.” Until now, they had not allowed you to see a single person other than them—in fact you wouldn’t have known there were more people here than the three of you had Lloyd not pointedly told you. “What kind of doctor treats a prisoner?”

“You’re a patient, Princess.” Lloyd corrects you. “Not a prisoner.” He kisses your thigh. One who enjoys a discreet, hefty payout. 

“Someone you know from work?” You ask snidely, and Lloyd laughs. 

“Maybe when I can trust you, I can tell you.” He winks at you. You know your brother-in-law does work for “the government” but you aren’t really sure which government. You get the feeling he has no loyalty in that regard, though all you have to go on is your own baseless assumption. Your thoughts turn to the doctor, and you wonder if they might be sympathetic, despite Lloyd’s money. If you’re even allowed to be alone with them—in all likelihood you probably won’t. If Ransom and Lloyd have been anything they’ve been careful, you doubt they’d make such a rookie mistake this far into the game. Not now. 

You smile sadly. “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to trust me.”

“Oh Princess, I don’t know about that. After all, look at us now.” A lump forms in your throat. “All cozy like. I think you feel a lot more comfortable than you want to admit.” You swallow against the lump that’s formed, thick and sticky in your throat. 

“I just know there’s no use trying to push you off.” 

“Okay, Princess.” Lloyd blows you a kiss. “Whatever you say.” 

It is warm and comfortable between them, and as much as you hate it, Lloyd’s hands do feel familiar and right on your skin, though you don’t want them to. It occurs to you once again that you don’t know what’s in those neat little pre-packaged pill bags that they’re giving you, and as much as you don’t want to bask in the sudden intensity of their affection after weeks of stark purposeful isolation, you still can’t help yourself. It doesn’t help to know the rules of the game when they’re still playing it so effectively. All you can do is watch as Ransom and Lloyd move you around the board, to ends you can only imagine. 

“When is the doctor coming?”

“Tomorrow,” Ransom says, squeezing your hand. “I think we’ll hear the heartbeat, you’re far enough along, you know.” He sounds excited. You know he is—Ransom has always been excited at the prospect of fatherhood. He’d been downright encouraging when you had brought up going off your birth control, if the things he’d been growling into your ear as he rutted into you in your bed were any indicator, and they were. 

“We still haven’t talked about names.” 

“I had a list going but it was on my phone.” 

“Maybe we’ll take a look at it together soon.” Ransom’s hands drift to your shoulders, rubbing at the tense muscle knotted underneath your skin. 

“Will we get pictures?” You ask. “Of the ultrasound?” 

“Of course.”

“Then… will you send them to my parents?” His hands falter, and you turn to look at him. Your husband’s expression is unreadable as he glances down at his brother, an entire conversation passing between them wordlessly. You feel that same pang of old jealousy creep up into your chest, and you swallow it down. “I just—they… they would want to see.” 

“Maybe.” He says at last. 

“Where do they think I am?”

“I don’t—”

“I’ve been good, haven’t I?” You ask, shifting away from him, from the both of them. “Please. Tell me something. Anything.” Lloyd shakes his head with a frown, but Ransom sighs. 

“You’re in a very expensive hospital in Austria.” 

“My father wouldn’t believe that,” you say, shaking your head. You know your family—they wouldn’t just swallow some paper thin excuse just to get back to their lives. Would they? “He-he would want to see me.” 

“Your father is very busy with his business, Princess,” Lloyd cuts in effortlessly. “He has so much to worry about, and then there’s Nathalie’s classes…” he shrugs. “They trust us to take good care of you.” 

“So let us take care of you.” 

You’d suspected you had no tears left to cry, that perhaps you’d cried them all already. But as always, you manage to surprise yourself with more from the seemingly unending supply inside you. You want to push away their hands as they pat and comfort you, hushing you and wiping at their tears with the pads of their thumbs. It’s the only comfort you have, especially knowing your family isn’t looking for you. Why would they? You remember the bitter, bitter arguments you’d had with your own father when you had decided to move out. They relied on you, needed you—you contributed to more than a third of the bills, there was simply no way around it. You were hurting the family, damning them with your independence. 

“Have you ever thought about anyone but your goddamn self?” Your father had never apologized for that night, and like a dutiful daughter you never brought it up again because how could you? You were the oldest, junior mom, de-facto parent. Something shatters inside you at the thought, and you feel it almost like physical pain. I wonder if they can hear it. 

You don’t know when the arms around you begin to feel like solace instead of suffocation as you weep against someone’s warm chest—you cannot be sure, not through your blurry, red-rimmed eyes. But as your fingers curl into his shirt, and another warm set of lips presses against your hair, you wonder if perhaps this is why they chose you. 

Because who didn’t love to tinker with a broken doll?

to be continued…

Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️

foxy brown front row at the marc jacobs spring 2003 fashion show.

TAKING WHATS NOT YOURS 4

ART X TASHI X PATRICK X F!READER

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

it is here yall, no smut but a surprising amount of straight sexual tension, i’ll make it gayer in the next one dw

you can’t believe you’re here. fuck. fuck. you changed too, back into tennis gear. fuck. the stars twinkle above like little spectators, a clear night in new york city. like fate was watching. they had reserved a court before even asking you, cocky as ever. you had all driven there together. you sat in the back, like mommy and daddy were taking you to a dance recital. this whole thing was ridiculous, and positively beneath you. and yet here you are, separated by a net from the man you’d thought in your naivety you would marry one day. you each stretched, rackets on the ground a ways away. every time you saw them in the corner of your eye you tensed, thinking about what was to come.

when you beat art, you wouldn’t fuck him. that’s something you were certain of, because it would make it so much more embarrassing for them. pimping yourself, your husband out is one thing, trying to and failing is much more humiliating. you thought about it, briefly on the car ride. what it would feel like after all these years. how good it would feel to make tashi squirm. and she would squirm. so help you god she would squirm. and art too. while he was inside you and clinging to you and more vulnerable than he’s ever been, you would tell him all about tashi and patrick’s little raundevouz, their little secret excursion. you would hear his heart break beneath you, feel his world crumble. you smiled to yourself in the backseat. art gave you up, tossed you out like a used tissue the second he could wriggle his way into the amazing tashi duncan’s life. and where was he now? coming second place, being cheated on, being whored out. and where was tashi? still seething over college, still hating you. you couldn’t judge her so violently, you were uncomfortably similar. except you can play, and she has art for a husband. it seems you can have love or tennis, and never both. tashi seems to have neither. in a roundabout way you pity her. in a more direct way you think she got what was fucking coming to her.

but no. you couldn’t fuck him, because that would hurt infinitely more. if tashi had come to town and avoided you, that would have angered you five times more than whatever this is. no. you weren’t sleeping with him. no way no how. nuh uh. dick is dick and you can get dick from anywhere. if the night before told you anything, historical dick will always do you wrong. so there. not sleeping with art. or tashi. or whatever.

tashi watches you stretch. your muscle fibres flex and protrude, a threat. if you beat art, she thinks you’re going to try to refuse the reward. or you at least plan to. you’re so fucking proud. everything is beneath you, everything, you can’t be pleased by anything. art is perfect, in every way, and yet you sneer and turn your nose up at her perfectly fine man. she wants to see it. she wants art to fuck you so bad it makes her angry. she wants him to be rough, and mean, she wants him to hold you down and make you cry. she watches the body that dominates the court, the face that haunts her dreams. she wants you to fucking submit. she wants your tennis body to become a cocksleeve and nothing more, and she wants art to do it. art would like it too. she knows he would. he doesn’t speak about you. he avoids you like the plague. something is left. maybe because of how you ended, in one clean silent chop the day of tashi’s accident, that he feels there’s something unfinished. she thinks he wants you. and he’s gonna get you and destroy any dignity that might remain. he’s gonna pound you like he owns you, because really he does, and tashi is gonna watch and she’s gonna laugh.

if you lose, she’ll watch her husband destroy you at tennis. and that will be just as freeing.

your gaze shifts from man on court to woman in stands, woman to man. they both have this serene look on their faces. not a care in the world. art should be worried. you’re going to thrash him. presuming this was still somewhat about tennis and he had any pride left at all, he was in for a rude awakening. second in that open. hm. you were gonna hang his sorry pathetic cuck ass out to dry and then you were gonna leave him wanting.

art’s certain he can win. tashi gave him comprehensive coaching in your style, your weaknesses and your strengths. truth is, you’re impressive, but art is a man. he could over power you, smash you into the dirt with sheer brute force. he’s certain he could beat you. but will he? tashi was unclear. this was of course entirely for her benefit, so which would she prefer? art had a feeling that your prize wasn’t only there to make you want to play. the prize didn’t seem to entice you at all, which bruised whatever remained of his ego. so should he win, or lose? what would please tashi more, seeing you beaten, or seeing you beneath something she owned? maybe they were the same.

you were both fully stretched and watered, and had began the stroll to pick up your rackets in synchronicity. his eyes raked over your face, and for the first time in all of this he considered what he wanted. he would’ve wanted to leave you alone. to respect you. but that couldn’t have happened. tashi needs closure. sleeping with you would be strange. you weren’t the same person he left in college, he wasn’t naive enough to forget that. before it all fell apart, when he was your tentative boyfriend, there were nights he locked away, too tender to be thought of by a married man. nights at his lake house, nights in your dorm, mornings when he would wake up covered in you and it was so still and calm that he had thought maybe it was still night, and you forgot to turn the light off. those nights, bolted into the safe for lost things in his mind, now drifted free. your soft skin and its smell, the weight of your body on top of his, your strawberry balm kisses. when you would dash away before sex to ‘freshen up’, and he’d smell his dorm’s cheap fruity hand soap when his nose pressed into your clit, when you opened your arm pit. you’d stopped drinking because he wouldn’t sleep with you drunk. you’d cry sometimes when he held you, when you were on top of him or when he was curved over your body so tightly everything touched. you’d cry. because no one had ever been this nice to you. and he would kiss them away, right from your under eye, licking them as they drooped of the edge of your chin. you never said i love you. never got that far. but he felt it from you. he knew you did. you had. he could tell in the way you listened to him. any tiny thing, any tiny little thing you logged away and remembered about him. if he told you once that he liked your hair half up half down, that was your hair for the next year. if he told you he liked your hands, rings and bracelets would scatter all across your dorm to be thrown on at his arrival. superficial things like that, but you listened so hard. you tried so hard. in those nights, you were like putty in his hands. he could’ve moulded you into anything. so receptive, so soft and wet and gentle. when he was inside you, when he was milked by your suckling, loving heat, he felt more at peace than he had in his whole life. it felt like you were the only two people left in the world, by God’s perfect design. you would take anything he gave to you, and because of that he was sweet and perfect to you. he was a dream man because you deserved a dream man. he truly adored you. but he wasn’t yours. and when those loving nights and sleepy mornings ended, it was tashi that returned to his mind. tashi. and she was so different from you. she was dangerous and painful and she made him itch. it was like getting high from a wasp sting, like he was addicted to the hurt. he didn’t want what was easy, what was simple and good and hearty. he wanted her. and it all worked out how it was supposed to, because tashi was his wife and she loved him and needed him and you were a tennis star. but, taking everything into account, it could never be how it was with you ever again. because you didn’t trust him anymore. he watched as you scooped up your racket, doing the same. you looked so concentrated. so angry. he wondered if you always felt angry. it probably helped you play better.

did he want to sleep with you again? that was the real question. well, if you would let him, he would. he wanted to. he never stopped adoring you, he realises now you hate him. you never did anything to make him stop. never pullled the plug, just walked away. the passivity of it made you slip away into the back of his mind, and for so long he didn’t realise you never left. he wanted to know how you changed. he wants to know how you’re different, and selfishly, he wants you to forgive him. if he was close enough to you you would know how sorry he was. if he could touch your skin one final time, and know whatever hurt he had caused you hadn’t stopped it being soft, then he could let go of you for real.

“you two ready?” tashi called from where she lounged in the seating area.

you flipped the racket round in your hold a few times, and nodded. art nodded too.

“alright. first to

this was it. you were going to beat that man into the ground and you were going to laugh in tashi’s face and you were going to remain unfucked. partially unfucked. god, in this rush you had forgotten that just the night before patrick had smiled at you, and for a glorious hour you had lost your mind. it didn’t bear thinking about. you wondered what he was doing tonight. probably laid up with some sorry girl in that fucking motel room. what a simple life failures lead. you eat, you fuck, you shit, you die. when you’re actually worth something everything is struggle.

art was undecided. he held a little fluorescent ball in his hand, putting it into the neck of the racket. his eyes darted in the dark to his beautiful wife. he raised his eyebrowqa millimetre. tashi’s head flicked side to side, incrementally left to right, shaking no. throw the match. this wasn’t about tennis anymore. it had never been about tennis. he knew that now.

restless you leaned from knee to knee, crouched, flaunting your mobility, eyes never leaving tashi duncan. he looked back to you, and when he met your eye a shiver ran down his spine. he’s gonna touch you again tonight.

he paused a few more seconds. and then he served, a big sweeping motion, a thunk over his head. you were put into play.

what was it tashi had said? something really pretentious. you remembered hearing about it, something she had said to the threesome lackeys. it was passed down in bits like chinese whispers, but you’d heard the thesis of it. tennis was like fucking. like making love. like a beautiful dance where souls intertwine and total nirvana is reached and blah blah blah. at the time you’d thought that it was the biggest load of drivel you’d ever heard, and that if that was how she really felt then she’d never amount to shit, at least not in tennis.

but now, on this moonlit court, a dozen feet away from tennis star art donaldson, a dozen more away from star coach tashi duncan, you think maybe she was right all along. because you are fucking the shit out of art. he can’t seem to get a single fucking point. if this was a relationship, it’s fucking abusive. small grunts emanate from him, wimpy and down trodden sounds like a kicked dog. you get halfway through the match before realising what’s really going on.

the sound of the ball cracking from racket to racket is ear splitting, but the sound of your celebration every time you sink a point is louder to art. more distinctive and more memorable. you pump your fist at your side, and almost hiss, yes, and you walk around in a little circle, as if unable to contain your excitement. in all the match footage tashi had him watch, you never celebrated unless you won the match. he almost felt himself smile, but forced it away. he couldn’t let you know your joy was under his control, that he was allowing it.

but he wasn’t subtle. point after point after point, and art never withered. his spine was straight, not beaten wavy with defeat like it was supposed to be. once or twice the ball passed right by his racket, he didn’t even lift it. he got a few points, it wasn’t forty love. but he didn’t sweat. grunted before he even lost the point, before he even began to hit the ball. his arms were loose. they flung one way and another. was he even trying to hit the ball? you were grunting, you were sweating. you were fucking trying. you respected tashi and art enough, if not as people, then as competitors, to fucking try. all this bullshit about fucking, and you were still willing to try and win because despite everything, you still felt you had something to prove. didn’t they? what was this if not proving something? what more could it possibly be? art was smiling. beaten into the dirt and smiling. this was fucked. your turn to serve. you hold the ball in your hand, and seethe. you don’t move. your head tilts incrementally. you stare art down, half to determine the degree of fuckery, and half just to make him squirm. until his eyes flick to tashi. guidance please, master? his big loping puppy dog eyes scream.

fucking pathetic.

your racket clatters to the ground, ear splitting in the dark and quiet. tashi grinds her teeth, fingers drumming the seat, and almost calls out. almost barks at you to keep playing. but she doesn’t. because for some reason, you’re stalking towards the net. she can see the moonlight bounce off your closely shaven legs. the springing of your pony tail wafts towards her a paralysing chill, and she remains in her seat, silent.

your shoes grind as you stop on the astroturf, gripping the net with one hand, beckoning art with the other hand. he looks at you, up and down, eye brow quirked up. his lips pout involuntarily, and the bottomless well of tenderness you have for this silly, silly man pours fourth once again, doing nothing to stave off your anger.

“you tryna fuck me or something?”

art recoiled slightly. his eyes dashed to tashi.

“what do you mean?” his voice was thin. he wanted you to be quieter.

“play like you mean it or get off the court.”

you turn on your heel as soon as you spit the words, tearing at the dirt red asphalt. but then you stop. art never does anything you want him to. you know from experience. he needs an ulterior motive. you flick the sweat off your slick forehead with the slick back of your hand, and turn to art, savage smile pulling uncontrollably at your lips.

art remained where you left him by the net, stunned. what a violent, vulgar woman you had grown into. the creature he knew, that swallow, that doe, would never have spoken to him like that. jaded. vicious. you were changed. you were mangled. even that look on your heavenly face sent chills ricochetting up his spine, across his ribs. he visibly twitched as you returned to the netside.

“art, did tashi tell you about atlanta.”

you let the end of that word flick, like a feather in the wind. ta.

art blinked.

“atlanta? we were just there.”

you grasped the net and leaned forward. all was hush, even new york waited for you to continue. no car alarms, no distant drunken hollering. it was just you and art and festering contempt. and tashi, off the side, craning to hear a word and hearing her heart beat instead.

“you wanna know who else was there?”

you bit your lip, gleeful. art took a step closer to grip the net, to lean over.

“who? what are you talking about?”

“patrick.”

slowly, like a fall through quicksand, art realised. art screwed up his face, looked at his shoes, and then slowly, and right before your eyes, he found out who his wife really was. face fallen, eyes wide and focused on you, you only nodding. now that it was in front of him it seemed to obvious.

“what does that mean?”

but he knew what it meant.

“it means, i saw him yesterday. he said he saw you. well, not you. your other half. she didn’t tell you? he said it was a quite vigorous discussion.”

“stop it.”

that sickly satisfied smirk slipped off your face like leftovers into trash, leaving only the fire that never left.

“make me.”

neither of you looked away, rarely blinked, both fumed. art thought he could best you, thought you wouldn’t notice, thought you would just accept his bullshit and roll over. but art didn’t know his wife like you did. and now he would play you like he hated you, and you could beat him at his best. also, he most likely wouldn’t want to have sex regardless of the outcome, so it was win-win in truth.

arts thoughts were not so controlled, nor as proud or positive. the limpness of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, it all spurred on a horrible sinking feeling, as if along with his world he too was crumbling. he had thought nothing when she left for a walk after the finale. nothing whatsoever. but it was then she had stolen away, like a criminal. a secret dirty rendezvous. forbidden, tantalising, stomach churning. art got second place that day. was that why? was she punishing him? why had you done this to him? patrick. patrick. of all people. patrick. each flash of his smiling face in the void of arts mind was like a gunshot, a flash breaking through the void. how could one person be this cruel? and why did it have to be you? why were you changed? why couldn’t you be the same, why couldn’t you love him still? he needed someone that loved him and you were right in front of him, dead. dead to love. dead to connection. you were a creature, but you were no doe. you were a wounded sulking beast. you would beat down or maul anything wilfully ignorant enough to cross your path. but he needed you to love him. if not tashi, you. despite tashi, you.

watching his crumble had a strange effect on you. he swayed, and looked all around like he was blind. you felt bad. the animal softness you kept for him in your soul churned inside you. you felt guilty. but he should know. he deserved to know. maybe not in that way. but in a way.

“is that true? swear to me you’re not lying.”

the night was cooling off, and the ice-lake blue of art’s eyes, the press of his lips, the sag of his shoulder made you shiver. only now did you realise how close his face was to you as he leant over the net. incrementally moving back, you swallowed.

“i swear.”

“ok. ok.”

he looked down, rocked, didn’t pull away.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

his cheeks filled with air, and you could hear him try to cough out the lump in his throat.

“hey, art. art.”

he wouldn’t look up.

“i never wanted to know that. i would’ve never known.”

you didn’t think about this, about how ugly this all was. that was an ugly, horrible, jaded thing to do. jaded. patrick was right.

“i’m sorry.”

hands on hips, he turned around, moving away from you, racket clutched in a white fist. he just walked. and walked. it looked like he was about to leave the court when he turned around.

“you serve.”

and you and him played. actually played for the first time all day. he was running for the god damn ball, he was slamming it so hard your wrist ached to receive it. his face was aged, he looked more wrinkled and wisened and sinister, and he played like that too, like he has a clue what was going on and what tennis was. on one hand, this pleased you. a real fucking game. someone of the tashi clan is finally speaking to you in a language you can understand, a field you can dominate. art, try as he might, still, still, still, using all his anger, wasn’t beating you. this pleased you immensely.

but on the other hand, art was so angry. so fucking furious, and he was directing it at you. of course he was, you’re right there, you’re the bitch that told him his wife cheated, you get the surface of it. but he was so fucking angry. the grunts he made, the force behind his strides, the festering resentment he looked at you with, that was all bullshit. art is so bullshit.

in times gone by, tashi was the big bad in your mind, a monolith for your hatred. but this hissy fit is alerting you to another fact. art left you for her. he married her. that was his choice. but now, it blows up in his face, and he has the gall to be angry at you? to glare at you, grunt at you, spit on the moon-shaded clay and snarl at you? he comes into your life for the second time, blows it up, while you have a competition, and now he’s pissed at you for biting back? with the truth no less.

art is angry at you, but the truth is, you’re angrier. and so you wipe the floor with him.

above, tashi surveys, quietly mystified. this is the best you’ve played, ever. your form is exquisite, and strong, violent but controlled. you’re not fucking around. not that you ever are, but she notes that as your tally climbs and climbs, you never get comfortable, you never let up. it’s the same measured looks, the same desire as you lick the sweat off your lips and eye-fuck her husband. whatever you spoke about got art playing good too. maybe you should come to all his tournaments. tashi is itching to know what was said, but moreover she’s itching for the match to end, for a forfeit to be exchanged. whatever that may be.

it doesn’t take long before her prayers are answered, and the verdict is art has lost. he miss your last mighty shot by a landslide, on the other side of the court when it crashes down and bounces away out of bounds, into the nothing. you have won. you won. art lets out a guttural throaty cry and throws his racket to the ground while little sweat droplets leap from him like glitter.

he laps the court angrily, and you just hold out your arms, let the cool air hug your skin. no victory cry, because your body is singing with exhaustion, hard earned exhaustion, as your chest fills with air you feel vilified, you feel your truth has been exacted. you beat tashi. tashi’s husband. you beat art. you beat tashi’s man servant into the ground. you fucking win.

“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck,” he holds the back of his head, elbows swinging as he moves about.

“fuck is right. i win.”

“shut up.”

like the crack of a whip you turn to look at him. he is still so fucking angry. at you. you, of all people.

“what was that? shut up? did a loser just tell me to shut up?”

“you know what you fucking did. you told me so i would lose concentration and throw the match.”

you were both approaching the net, seething, panting. he pointed at the floor as he spoke, with passion, like he even had a leg to stand on. maybe it was his righteous outrage that pissed you off, his self important hurting. why was he so angry at you? you didn’t fuck patrick. well, not in atlanta anyway.

“i told you so you would give enough of a shit to play me for real. that was the best you’ve played in year, art,”

you poke his chest, and aggression blooms within him from your point of contact like blood in water. you’re gonna make him crazy, he’s so angry. you’re still poking him.

”and guess what? i still. fucking. beat you.”

“you shut up or ill make you shut up.”

“oh, that really got the testosterone pumping didn’t it donaldson? do you think your balls are gonna drop soon, you spineless shit?”

“you vicious little bitch. you’re this much of a cunt just because tashi was better than you in college? how pathetic can a person be?”

“she is not fucking better than me. and you of all people should know that.”

your voice cracks. so it comes out fu-cking. but your point remains. a breath filled quiet settles and for a brief moment all either of you can do is stare at each other and realise how close you’ve gotten and ache and burn and crave. his hand rests on the net, a centimetre away from yours. if you wiggled your pinky at all you’d be touching.

you watch him breath, watch his eyes trace the sweat from your chin that drips to your chest, watch him hate the fact he noticed. you watch his anger congeal. set into warm mush instead of hot liquid. you felt a heaviness in your chest as you felt yourself giving in, giving over to your anger. giving over to the hurt that fueled it.

and you kissed each other. because there was nothing else in the world to do. like opposite poles, against both of your conscious wills, you crashed into each other and kissed like biting vipers. it hurt. your fingers dug into his thinly covered shoulders, his back, dull though they were. he gripped the back of your neck, the base of your skull, pushing you forward into him, keeping you where he could have you. his other hand fisted the back of your tank, like he was holding the scruff of a bad cat’s neck. trapped in his hold, you had no choice but to love him. you clawed and kissed and little noises escaped you, and all of a sudden he was 19 again and he had you. All thoughts of tashi and patrick and coming second place were vanquished, and all he could feel was the softness of your nose pressed into his cheek, the pliable flesh of your tongue and the freedom with which you enjoyed things, how much noise and honesty you were willing to give. nothing had felt so raw, so real for a long time.

your lips mushed and deformed around the other, your tongues licked like fire, you held each other until you felt you couldn’t be closer. and then tashi existed again. and you pulled away.

“congrats. our room or yours?”

mariacarla boscono @ roberto cavalli s/s 2003

This Way (Ain't Shit Series)

SUMMARY: Amalia gets to the real reason behind Ransom's sudden visit.

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Black!OC; Ransom Drysdale x Amalia Wright

Warnings: Cursing, Dysfunctional Family Dynamics, Depictions of Fainting, Single Mom OC, Slightly!OC Ransom, Emotionally Stunted Individuals, Romantic Tension, Extremely Slow Burn, Angst; WC: 2134

A/N: Hey y'all. It has been over a month since the last update, so I really hope y'all are still interested! I started college so I have been trying to get situated here. Chapter two didn't do super well, but I chalked that up to a lack of Ransom (lol). Still, the responses I got were great! So please keep reading and sharing your thoughts. As always, enjoy!

Song Inspo: This Way - Khalid x H.E.R.

Masterlist / PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“Amalia!”

My eyes flutter open and it takes a moment for me to focus. My vision is blurred and my head swirls lazily. The slow pulsing of my forehead has me momentarily dazed. When my eyes finally lock on Ransom’s striking blues, I find his eyes filled with worry. Little strands of hair escape his slick, upkept style. The throbbing in my head intensifies as I struggle to sit up. 

“Hey, hey. Take it easy. You passed out for a minute there.”

Ransom stops me from moving too quickly, gently helping me up. I slowly swing my legs off the couch, holding my head in my hands. He places a hand on my back hesitantly, rubbing in small circles. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, hoping to stop the pulsating of my skull. I barely notice as he rises from the couch, returning with an opened bottle of water. He hands it to me wordlessly. When I’ve drained half the bottle, I hold it out to him. He takes it, setting it on the coffee table in front of us. 

I notice pillows and papers scattered on the floor along with Shiloh’s toys. 

“What happened here,” I ask, gesturing toward the mess on the floor.

“They were in the way,” He replies simply. 

I sigh, leaning back against the sofa.

For a while, I trace nonexistent patterns into the ceiling before sliding my eyes back to Ransom. He observes me pensively. I bite my lower lip, pulling at the dried skin. He looks away, resting his head in his hands. There’s a slight tremor in his knee as he bounces it. His breath is quicker than usual. 

I exhale heavily through my nose. He looks back at me, hands clasped in front of him. Ransom arches an eyebrow, waiting for me to speak. I purse my lips.

“I really passed out?”

He nods. 

“How long was I out?”

“A couple minutes or so. Felt like fucking forever though.”

I nod at his words, training my eyes back on the ceiling. I trace a few more patterns. 

“How dramatic of me.”

I look back to Ransom just as an unreadable expression crosses his features. I worry, for a moment, that I’ve upset him. But suddenly he bursts out laughing. Loud, hysterical laughter that has him throwing his head back. One hand slaps his chest and the other claps my shoulder. The hand on my shoulder, however, retreats as quickly as it comes and rests atop the other on his chest. He doubles over, his voice becoming hoarse from his manic laughter. 

I can’t help the way my lips curve slightly, enjoying his amusement. I’ve always loved Ransom’s laugh. The way he puts his entire being into it to express his joy reminds me of how infrequently he feels this way. Laughter like this is rare from him, but far more frequent when we’re alone. Longing fills my bones as I observe his full-body laughter. The moment feels familiar. As if I told one of our inside jokes and he’s now losing it over how hilarious and chaotic we are. But this is different. The circumstances have changed. 

Discomfort rises in me as I avert my eyes. Ransom’s elbows rest on his knees. He covers his face with his hands, chuckling occasionally, before sniffing and running a hand over his face. A fist to his mouth hides the smile that still lingers. Then he looks at me, resting his cheek against his fist. 

“Leave it to you to make a joke at a time like this,” He says, laughing again. 

His laugh is softer this time, a gentle rumble at the back of his throat. I don’t respond but that doesn’t phase him. He presses on. 

“That’s always been my favorite thing about you, Mala.”

My cheeks burn. Mala. A rush of desire burns through me as it rolls off his tongue. He says it so fondly, with such ease. As if he’d only been gone for one night and things were still the same between us. But they aren’t the same. They will never be the same. I look away and cross my arms tightly across my chest, heated desire fizzling into irritation.

“You don’t get to call me that anymore. Don’t make this personal.”

“We’ve passed personal, babe,” He scoffs. “Literally. Need I remind you how you fell into my arms?”

I roll my eyes. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you still trust me. At least a little.”

Our eyes clash as his words hang between us. I feel bare, naked under his scrutiny. Warmth filters into his gaze, softening as he observes me. His eyes drop to my lips almost imperceptibly. The caress of his gaze blazes through me, a heated path left in the wake of his roaming stare. I find myself leaning in, watching him with baited breath as his eyes finally return to mine. 

It’s when he leans forward that I snap back into myself. 

Shaking my head, I stand abruptly. My head swirls as I try to balance myself. I feel off-kilter but I can’t tell if it’s my headache or him. Maybe both. I press my fingers into my temple, massaging them in slow circles. Ransom’s hand comes to rest on my back. 

“Careful,” He says. “No need to rush.”

With my millionth eye roll of the evening, I remove myself from his touch and reach for my water. Quickly, Ransom grabs it before I can and holds it out to me. My eyes flit between him and the bottle. Turning on my heel, I head to the kitchen for a new one and ignore the exasperated sigh he lets out.

“You’re so damned stubborn, Amalia.”

“Deal with it,” I shoot back. 

“Yeah, I’ve been dealing with it,” He mutters. 

I pause, turning to glare at him. 

“Wanna say that a little louder, asshole?”

He clicks his teeth, running a hand over his face. 

“I’m just saying that a little help wouldn’t kill you.”

“Ha! And how can you help me?”

“There’s no harm in letting me be there for you. This has gone on long enough.”

I know what he means. I know what he wants but I won’t have it. I won’t give him what he wants. A vile, nasty urge wells up inside of me. It rears its ugly head and rises like a lion ready to feast. I narrow my eyes at him, my lip curling slightly. My fists ball at my sides as I take a deep breath to calm myself. Still, the rage demands my attention.

“My sister will be here soon,” I say, my tone biting. “I don’t need you.”

“Mala--”

“Don’t fucking call me that again.”

Ransom sighs heavily and rests a hand on his hip, the other pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Oh, but I sure as hell want to argue with you! Don’t play the bigger person and stop this now!”

“Someone fucking has to! I haven't held my son in two years,” he yells. “Two years!”

“It didn’t seem to bother you before now!” 

Then, I pause. Ransom continues, his words falling on deaf ears. 

“Of course it did--”

His words jumble together in my mind, forming a mishmash of meaningless sentiments. He hasn’t seen his son. His relationship with his grandfather was ruined. He hasn’t spoken to me properly for two years. He can’t go on like this. He wants us back in his life. The words spiral around me. 

His son. Can’t go on. Two years. His grandfather. 

His grandfather. 

Then, it all clicks into place. 

“Hey, are you even listening to me?”

“I get it now. That’s what you’re here for.”

Ransom scowls in confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Archie left half of his estate to me. Who got the other half?”

His jaw clenches as he looks away from me. 

It feels as though a rug has been pulled out from under me. I should have expected this. I should have fuckin’ known better. But like an idiot I wanted to believe that this time could be different. But all Ransom has ever cared about is Ransom so why would this sudden occurrence be any different?

Still, it pisses me the fuck off. 

“Your granddaddy cut you out of the will and now you want to run back to the baby mama, right?”

I throw my words like daggers, cutting deeper with each syllable. I aim to draw blood with my words. Ransom drops his placating stance, throwing his arms in frustration. 

“He cut me off a long time ago, dammit! This isn’t about that.”

“I don’t care what it’s about. I don’t want shit to do with whatever the hell you and your crazy ass family got going on.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t mind messing with my crazy ass family as long as Archie was helping you out.”

The words sting like a slap in the face. They fall between us, heavy and full of malice. My ears ring as though I have truly been struck. A flicker of shock crosses Ransom’s face but it's immediately hidden behind an indifferent facade. My laugh is quiet and jaded as I wrap my arms around myself, nodding slightly. 

“There he is,” I say quietly. “There’s the Ransom I know.”

Ransom’s body is stone-like as his eyes roam around in an effort to avoid mine. His jaw clenches so tightly that his teeth are in danger of cracking. The way he shifts his weight awkwardly tells me all I need to know as he stews in his poorly hidden guilt. Ransom was deadass wrong for that and he knows it. I give Ransom another moment. Another chance to somehow save his ass. Ransom glances at me momentarily, taking in my piercing stare, before crossing his arms petulantly and turning away from me.

Nodding again, I cross to the front door. My shoulder brushes his as I pass by and I ignore the ripples that surge through my nerves at the sensation. Different emotions rise inside of me but I stomp them down as quickly as they emerge. Still, despite myself, I feel my eyes welling with tears. I pull the door open--

--And stop short as I find Stephania standing there prepared to knock. 

Shiloh sleeps soundly in her arms. I glance over my shoulder quickly, hoping Ransom hasn’t noticed. But, of course, he has. He approaches the door swiftly, only freezing in his tracks when I step between him and the front door. A myriad of emotions cross his features, astonishment being the most prominent. 

Steph looks between the two of us, a similar look of bewilderment in her eyes. Wordlessly, she turns around and retreats to her car. 

I step aside, avoiding Ransom’s eyes, and gesture to the open door. 

“Go.”

“You can’t possibly want me to leave now,” He says incredulously. At my silence, he presses further. “Amalia, don’t be fucking ridiculous!”

“I won’t let you drag him into this. We’re done here.”

Stealing a glance at him, I look up just in time to watch his eyes grow cold. His face is hard as he glares down at me. I stand my ground against him, refusing to falter. The corner of his lips lifts into a cruel smirk. He scoffs quietly. 

“Yeah? Well, I’m not done with you. This is far from over.”

He snatches his shoes from by the door, not bothering to put them on as he shoves past me. In a blink, he’s gone. I vaguely register the sound of his car rumbling down the road as Steph comes back with Shiloh. Her eyes are wide as she stands in the threshold, looking in the direction Ransom drove off in. She looks back at me. 

“So…what the hell did he want?”

She peeks into the living room with wide eyes. 

“Better yet, what the hell happened here?”

I take Shiloh from her, inhaling his sweet baby scent. I look at the living room behind me, taking in the mess of pillows and scattered paperwork. The mess taunts me, serving as a glaring reminder of his presence here. But when my eyes land on the stuffed bear he carelessly tossed aside earlier, I can’t help the pride that swells up in my chest. My baby shifts in my arms, babbling sleepily, and my joy expands infinitely. 

Shiloh is still here. Shiloh is still mine. 

I give my sister a tired smile and slight shrug. 

“Nothing.”

Quietly, I turn around and head down the hallway leaving her there slack jawed. Moments later, I hear the front door slam and I know Steph is hot on my heels.

“Uhm, bitch! I know you fuckin’ lyin’!”

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Part Four (coming soon...)