12 Days of Christmas || Seb and Chris One Shots

Addicted || Ransom Drysdale

On the eighth prompt of Christmas, we present to thee... A Ransom Drysdale Cable Knit Christmas.

The Thrombeys and the Drysdales are not nice families. They pretend they are, are all smiles to people's faces but pure venom behind your back. And you know this, have heard them speak about you when they think no one can hear them.

The alt-right troll you tutor isn't even the worst of them and that says something considering he spends all of his lessons posting hate online. Thinking he's right, a family trait.

There's one you do like though, one you know exactly where you stand with. Not all nice to your face and whispered daggers behind closed doors. No, with him you know exactly what he's thinking when he's thinking it and what he thinks of you without having to guess.

Hugh Drysdale.

Ransom.

The Christmas party is not much of the latter, they stand around and talk a lot while the music is too loud for you to hear them. Jacob pretends you don't exist which works just fine for you because you'd rather not be here anyway and wouldn't definitely not like to speak to him when you're not teaching him. He's glued to his phone again, thumbs busy at the screen as everything moves around him.

Marta, the nurse, is here too not dressed much different to what she wears when she cares for Harlan, the head of the family. She's talking to Meg, someone you don't know too well and would rather not interrupt even if it means you stand awkwardly by the wall sipping at a drink that, by now, is just melted ice.

That's when he comes up to you, eating a cookie you recognise from the cupboards. Thumb swiping along the tips of long fingers to rid of any crumbs before he speaks in that voice that sends shivers down your spine.

"Y/N. Having fun?"

"Oh yeah. Party of the year." You say, bringing the glass to your mouth as you realise he's watching your lips.

"How's my Nazi cousin treating you?"

"Jacob?"

"Do I have more than one?"

Your laugh gets stuck in your throat and you wish it hadn't, sounds like you're trying too hard.

"I hope not." You manage nothing left of the ice now, glass completely empty and there's nothing to distract you from him.

From the blue of his eyes that are grey in this room, the lights too dim to reach them but you know what they look like from the other times you'd stared at them for too long. Him and his perfect hair and how it folds just how he wants it to, combed to the sides and not a curl out of place. He's wearing a sweater, white and thick and covered in holes. Sleeves long, tickling at his knuckles as he tucks the edges into his palm.

"Wanna get out of here?"

"And go where?" You ask as if you care, just wanting to be with him.

"Anywhere that isn't around these assholes."

"Count me in."

He takes the glass from you, putting it onto one of the shelves without a coaster. Knowing it would drive his family crazy, water stains seeping into the wood. A little bit of you hopes they didn't know it was you, but then the rest of you couldn't care.

And you don't really get far, he pulls you into the bathroom like he couldn't wait to touch you. But you're scared, you know he has a temper, can't help but wonder if you've done something to get on the wrong side of it.

He locks the door and pushes you against the wall, not hard but it's enough to make you think twice about moving from his grip.

The palm of his hand is flat against your lips, your own breath warm on your skin as your mouth goes dry. His eyes are more black now, the blue you're so used to fading.

"Got to be quiet, the old man hears everything." Ransom beckons towards the vent, a metal grill where secrets pass between rooms. "I've seen the way you look at me."

You stop breathing at that, his other hand firm at your waist. Fingers untucking your shirt from your skirt before trailing to the small of your back.

"Do you want this?" He whispers, words warm against the line of your jaw as he moves his mouth to your ear. "Do you want me?"

You don't say anything at first, eyes rolling closed at his touch. Not being able to think straight at the way his breath hitches, telling you that it might not have just been you who'd imagined this.

You nodded, his fingers digging into your cheek following you as your head moved.

"You've got to be quiet. Can you be good and be quiet?" He asks, pulling away from you before his hand loosens around your lips letting you breathe without feeling it on your own skin.

"Yes." You manage but it's barely a sound, an almost whimper and he raises an eyebrow at you, needing more. "Yes." That's a little more convincing, a warmth already building at your core at the thought of what might happen.

Of his lips on yours, tongue at the seam of your mouth, hands exploring your skin.

And it's exactly like you imagined, the kiss fierce. Almost rushed but you melt into it, legs weak and you're glad he almost has you pinned, helping hold you in place. His jaw is smooth as you bring your hands to cup his face, needing to touch him too.

It's rushed, breaths staggered and moans swallowed. He brings his finger to his mouth when he draws back, reminding you to be quiet before pulling at his pants and his cock springs out, the tip wet and leaves a trail of precome on your skirt.

Something to worry about later.

"I, uh, I'm on birth control." You say, sounding like this is something you do all the time.

But it's him, he does this to you. Makes your words melt at your tongue and steals all sense.

"Okay. Good. Got to be quiet." He reminds you, fingers feeling the line of your panties before pushing them to the side. "And quick, before they come looking for us. Well, you. They won't care where I am."

The tip of his dick finds your folds and he doesn't wait, pushes it into you and you bring your mouth to his shoulder. Biting at his shirt to stifle any moans.

"You're so wet," he whispers, lips brushing against your ear. "You take me so well."

"Ransom." You moan into his neck.

"Call me Hugh." Ransom says as he thrusts, a little harder now. "You call me Hugh."

"I'm sorry."

His hands move to your thighs before lifting you off the floor and holding you against the wall. He fucks you in the air, fingers digging into the curve of your ass as he thrusts into you.

When you moan his name again, breathless as you bob, he tells you how you're his. How you were made for him, how he was meant to have you. All whispers in your ear adding to the warmth at the pit of your stomach.

And you're so close. Can feel yourself tightening around him as he calls you a good girl.

"Fuck, Hugh..." You breathe into his skin, mumbling words of nothing as he makes you feel everything.

The name does something to him, he changes with it. Only the help made to call him that. And that's what you were, you suppose.

Help. Helping him release some tension. Helping him get away from his family. Helping him come as you bring your mouth to his neck, lips leaving trails of spit as you move from his jagged thrusts.

Then he's done, slows to nothing and lets you back down to the floor. Doesn't wait for your legs to adjust to standing again, doesn't kiss you a thank you.

Just pulls out, cleans himself with a damp edge of the towel, looks at you through hooded eyes and leaves.

That's when you realise, he's just like the rest of the Thrombeys. Takes what he wants and doesn't care what he leaves behind.

But you don't care. You want more.

You want him.