multi-fandom oneshots

more money, more problems (ransom drysdale)

summary: Ransom Drysdale is a spoilt trust-fund brat with family issues, and you're the idiot who got involved with him.

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: smut, SPOILERS

note: yes i hate ransom drysdale yes I wrote a smut drabble about him we exist

Ransom Drysdale is arrested for the murder of Fran Patterson after the housekeeper succumbs to her injuries in hospital. He's led to a police car with his hands behind his back and the world's cockiest smile alight on his face, because he knows.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

Ransom Drysdale spends a week in police custody. A week in which he's treated with the utmost respect a murderer can be afforded – and then he's let go, because Ransom Drysdale is rich, white, and a man, and he has money and lawyers to burn.

And also, a complete and utter asshole. The first thing he does after strolling out of the police station is slap your ass and pet his car fondly – and you wonder, not for the first time in the past year or so, what the ever-loving fuck you're doing with this trust fund Republican piece of–

"Shit!"

The second thing Ransom Drysdale does after buying his way out of jail time is fuck you in the front seat of his precious car – with the seat pushed back as far as it can go, your skirt rucked up and panties pressed to the side, his too-expensive pants undone at the fly.

You'd think he'd be angry after being detained for a week, because Ransom's way of thinking is usually rife with self-pity and outrage at how unfair his life is. And being detained for a murder that he most definitely did commit would be cause for a hissy fit – but no. Ransom doesn't pull on your hair or squeeze your throat with one meaty hand in anger. He is wholly and totally amused.

Ransom fucking laughs into your breasts – sucks roughly on the nipple of one before tugging it between his teeth. His hands move quickly, flighty, as if that one week without his cock inside you had genuinely been painful – one minute, clutching your tits like a horny teen, the next, grasping your hips so hard you know it'll bruise, pushing you back and forth on him so rigorously you fear the car's shaking will get you caught and you'll both be arrested for public indecency.

But the car was haphazardly parked on the side of an empty, barren road, hopefully shrouded in the canopy of trees on either side. Nobody drives past here much. Except Ransom, and you, maybe, because despite the fact that this man underneath you is a spoilt brat you also kinda maybe like him a bit. Maybe a tiny bit more than like.

"Missed this," he pants, leaning his head back and just letting you ride him like the spoilt brat he is. "Missed this fuckin' pussy."

Shut up, you want to snarl. Shut up, with your perfect hair and comfy sweaters and stupid smile and–

But you don't. Instead, you lean down and lick a stripe up his neck, breathing deeply every time he bottoms out and whining quietly everytime he slips out again.

Should you feel guilty for lovi– fucking a murderer? You remember visiting him while he was detained. They only allowed you to speak for five minutes before they barrelled you out again, and in those five minutes all he'd done was swear up and down that he only did it because he had to. Of course, that didn't lessen the crime – murder is murder – but he seemed to care a lot about getting that particular point across. I had to, baby. I had to. But I'd never hurt you.

You should feel sick to your stomach – but in reality, the only thing you're feeling right now is your orgasm creeping up on you, pressing goosebumps onto every inch of skin bar the burning heat of Ransom's hands on your waist.

"I can feel you," he laughs, breathless. "You're gonna cum, aren't you?"

"Shut up," you do say this time, though its bite is significantly weakened by the tremble in your voice, the ecstasy no doubt painted on your face. "Shut up, Hugh, or I swear to God–"

"Hugh? Oh, I'm in trouble, aren't I–?"

Your orgasm rises and crests, washing over you like some formidable, overpowered wave. The feeling of you squeezing around him shocks him into silence – thank God for that, you suppose – and you can feel his eyes on you as you cum. He's always liked that: watching you, that is. He has a gigantic mirror in his room that he got just for that.

Your limbs turn to jelly and the breath is wrenched from your lungs, leaving you fucked out and shuddering into Ransom's shoulder as he chases his own orgasm. With him panting in your ear and pressing half-moons into your skin, you're sure you can muster up the strength for round two. But then–

"Oh, fuck. Fuck, baby. Goddamnit."

He always cums like this. With his eyes screwed shut and his nose wrinkled up and his mouth agape, chest heaving and grip on you steadily becoming painful.

He looks innocent like this, you think. Not Ransom Drysdale, playboy rich-kid turned murderer. Just Hugh – the guy who made stupid jokes and liked that expensive brand of crisps that cost too much per packet. The guy that had – and you were told this in the strictest confidence – always wanted to follow in his grandfather's footsteps in becoming a writer, but had been discouraged from it at every turn.

You pity him. He grew up with emotionally absent parents and a greedy family and it was all he knew. No wonder he turned out to be an ass! His parents coddled him and then threw him to the dogs and regularly made a point to call him the black sheep. His family turned their backs on him and then his grandfather pulled him from the will after having Ransom depend on him for years.

Yeah, Ransom was a rude, arrogant ass. But maybe a lot of it was more nurture than nature. You've been doing your best to pull his head off his own dick, but as expected it was taking a long time. He was getting a bit better, little by little. He said please and thank you and didn't yell at the last person who spilled coffee on his expensive sweater. Maybe you were a tiny bit proud that it was you who made him change – not his mom, not his dad. You. That had to count for something, right?

"I get outta jail and you've got your head in the clouds?" Ransom teases, biting so hard on your neck that you actually yelp, slapping his head away. "C'mon, baby. I missed you."

"Shut up," you mumble, wincing as you rise to your knees and he slips out. You collapse into the passenger seat with a loud sigh. "Do you have paper towels in here?"

"I'm not kidding," he says, ignoring you. You glance over at him and are startled to see he's already looking at you. "I missed you."

You roll your eyes. "Start the car, Ransom."

So he does, and he does it with a grin. Maybe now isn't the time to be blabbing about the absolute mess in his head – like how he actually likes when you call him Hugh or how he genuinely did miss you in that one week or the fact that maybe you're the only person he's ever wanted to call his.

Nah, now's not the time. But it'll come. Oh, it'll come.