Lawyer, Lawyer
Secret Garden
Category: Headcanons
Yandere Richard Ramsay x Reader
Word count: 1.7k
Warning: Very NSFW, yandere tendencies, manipulative and possessive behaviour, professionally inappropriate and creepy behaviour
Note: This was written privately before. Decided to upload it here with added spice because, of course, I like to torture the person I originally wrote it for.
@johnwickb1tsch come get your man.
Divider by @thecutestgrotto
(GIF not mine, credit to the owner.)
Unedited
Imagine being his client...
He's immaculate. Something he has learnt through his years in practice, not in his younger days.
Richard complicates and delays the case more than required because then he gets to dig more about you and get you all vulnerable with him.
This man lives to see you trust and depend on him. Lean towards him to brave through the case that has suddenly turned unnecessarily complicated.
He has a saviour complex. He's going to be your saviour, not just your lawyer.
He is suave and lives for the banter you two share. Witty light and his absolute favourite – your laughter.
Gets to know more about you through means other than you.
He not only knows about your favourite authors but also your ex-boyfriends who still try to contact you. Not happening.
Oh, don't think he's all gentlemanly. That's a perfectly woven facade. Every time you leave, his hand rests over the warm seat you were sitting on, as if he's absorbing what you left.
Does not shy away from touching you, masked as 'comforting' or 'understanding'.
If you're emotionally vulnerable, he'd try to gaslight tf out of you, making you think that you needed to let him know every time you travel somewhere or go to meet someone. He's just looking out for his client. He's a good lawyer.
A very good lawyer.
Until you realise that suddenly, he's helping you with groceries and cooking you meals, as if he's a part of your life. As if... what you share is special.
You might try to resist this and bring back the professionalism, but Richard is not afraid to confront you.
The communication more or less likely feels like psychological cornering, yet so subtle, you end up questioning yourself.
The matter might settle for a while, but Richard is not the kind to take chances.
Hence begins his game of entangling you further, closer to his life. And deliberately making it obvious. not too obvious, yet subtle enough to add fuel to the fire.
Your friends and family cannot help but notice things. How close he is, how perfectly in sync both of you are.
Maybe he started as your lawyer, and yet he stuck around somehow after the case. And suddenly, he is being invited to gatherings and family lunches. Your friends are close to him now; suddenly, he is in your circle. Your inner circle.
Now, any sane woman would have questioned things, confronted him or at least begun to draw subtle boundaries. But not you.
You are the woman who has had a crush on him ever since you two began to talk and banter about things that are far from your case.
Absurd theories, absurd movies, silly conspiracy theories, shows, the paranormal, novels, women's perspectives and positions in the current society, rights, information, narratives and anything and everything you can think of.
You can talk to him about anything and everything and never feel, even for once, judged. Except for one time, you commented on his favourite book. In your defence, it was misinterpreted by him (that's what you tell yourself after re-reading chapter 4)
You don't even like the kind of books he reads, but you have begun to read them anyway, telling yourself that this will help you earn wins against him during all the discussions and arguments filled with witty and sarcastic jabs thrown at each other with a mildly flirtatious wink, just shy of turning inappropriate.
But you know that you want a glimpse into his mind through his reading list. You want to know him better.
You know the disaster you are heading to, but the eyes are the kindest shade of brown there ever has been, and the curved lips are your demise. No, actually, it is the voice—the calm, soothing, deep, quiet voice with just the right kind of friction that somehow leaves you wanting to bite your lips.
At times, when you share a drink with him, you feel the buzz painting a rosy picture of a fictional future. Something that will never exist.
Only if you knew...
Only if you knew the way he maps you with his eyes. To him, constellations fade against you, and even in the night sky, he searches for the shape of you.
He notices the way your eyes turn a little droopy and dark, desire swirling like slow-churning dessert, encouraged by the buzz of alcohol.
It takes everything in him not to pull you to his lipa and use his hands to map your form instead. Eyes are not enough; they simply fuel this crushing yearning.
A cigarette on a rainy day cannot dampen the fire; a bottle of aged whisky is useless here. It's like there is no other way but to take you in his arms.
There is a notebook sitting in his second drawer, with the list of the places you frequent, the minute details that slipped out during late-night conversations, and your beloved recipes, down to each measurement.
One afternoon, he has a trip to the ice cream parlour with you, and suddenly, a sunny and windy day is all he can wish for. Your dress flutters perfectly, but by the way your hair sways and the wind carries your laughter, he believes he has found the key to his happiness.
The ice cream sticks to your lips, and he has never clenched his fist so hard, trying not to look, while all he wants to do is swipe that off your lips and lick it himself without breaking eye contact, just so that you know the fire he burns inside.
Your tongue swipes off the melting dessert moments later, and suddenly, he has never been more parched.
His moment does come, but with a half-eaten peach pie sitting on a diner's table.
This time, his thumb reaches your lips before your tongue can peek out.
He wishes time to freeze just so he can look longer into your startled eyes and the flash of heat any other man might have missed, but Richard Ramsay isn't just any other man; he is a lawyer, and nothing escapes his keen eyes.
With his heart drumming against his ribcage, he takes the chance and tests the boundary. This is a dangerous line to cross, but he has already crossed so many without your knowledge; this would perhaps be an honest display. His thumb slowly slips inside your mouth.
He feels your breathing hitch before you part your lips, without breaking eye contact. You allow his thumb to slip past your lips and settle on your tongue before you give it a tentative suck.
That becomes his unravelling, and you know exactly what you are doing. From there, everything is a blur.
Maybe he pulls back his thumb swiftly and scrambles with his wallet, putting the money on the table; maybe he pulls you up, and perhaps he hears your teasing giggle as you try to bite down. Oh, he is going to get back at you.
Somehow, you both manage to keep things decent until he drives to his apartment, stealing mind-melting and dangerously long kisses in between and trying not to cause an accident.
But as soon as his apartment door closes with a bang, it is a tornado of clothes almost being torn apart, clumsy, mumbles of confessions like whispered dark secrets under a moonless sky and your hands on each other, like artists experiencing the most beautiful of sculptures.
You are art. Drawn with complexity, raw passion, contradictions and that infuriatingly witty mouth of yours that seduces and tests him with the same intensity.
"You have no idea…" Richard pauses to catch his breath, resting his forehead against yours, "...how much I have wanted this. I wanted this for so long"
"How long?" You do not smirk, but instead, there is a genuine sense of vulnerability in your sweet eyes that makes him cup your cheeks.
"Long enough for me to break."
You pull him into yet another melting kiss, and he responds with fury.
Hungry mouths upon each other, desperate breaths and all-consuming desire. You shove away all second thoughts even before they can knock on your mind.
He is worth this blind leap, even if your heart breaks beyond repair tomorrow.
The bedroom door slams open with you both pushing yourselves into the room, hands and bodies tangled, tongues dancing intimately with each other.
It is only when you both almost trip that you pull away from him, giggling. Richard lets out a huff of laughter before backing you against the nearest wall and finding your mouth again.
This time, his lips descend to your neck, and it is only by chance that you catch your reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall.
The mesmerising image of his bare back under the light from outside filtering into the otherwise dark room. Perhaps this is how the most beautiful arts are made, drawn, written, captured in lenses and sculpted.
He descends lower, to your breasts, your stomach, and finally, on his knees, he looks up to you with eyes of reverence and hunger as he holds your naked hips, and you part your legs to welcome him in between.
You have no clue the number of times he has imagined this, how much he has wanted this, for how long. What he is willing to risk for this night, for you. You in his arms, you in his life.
He was thinking of a slow game, but since this night has broken his patience, he will savour it to the last bit.
His lips touch your nether lips first, simply testing, reading you. He learns from every gasp, every sound, every twitch and the way your hips rock against his mouth when his tongue flicks over your pearl before his mouth takes it in for a slow torture that earns him a tug at his hair.
His fingers join in. At first, only mapping the opening with feather-like touches, before the first finger sinks a little deeper, exploring the dewy folds and beyond.
You take his name in moans and gasps, and it only adds to his slow-building frenzy. Soon, he is sinking two fingers knuckle-deep while his lips remain closed around your delicate pearl.
You say something in between your babbled words, him being the death of you. No, honey, he is going to be the one your future revolves around.
You let out a strangled scream when he pushes you over the edge with his mouth and two fingers curled up inside you. He is rewarded with your essence coating his thick, long digits.
When he looks up, your droopy eyes and slow smile greet him, and he decides he has waited enough.
You have half a mind to get back at him for such an intense climax by getting on your knees, but on the other hand, your body burns for him.
You do not get to think longer than a few seconds because his fingers are on your nape as soon as he is back on his feet, and his lips take yours, smearing your mouth with your own essence.
The landing on the bed is clumsy, it earns another round of light-hearted huffs and giggles before he parts your thighs and settles between your legs.
It's almost surreal, the feeling of his length against yours, because you have entertained this thought night after night, touching yourself, thinking of him, whispering and moaning his name. You have imagined the feeling, his eyes, his touch, his lips being all over you.
You pull him to another kiss when he enters you.
"I'm so going to— going to get back at you." You whisper out, breathless with the feeling of being deliciously full, like you finally have something you did not know you desired, with the kind of fire that burns you slowly yet whole.
"Mhm?" He smirks, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and kissing your cheek tenderly while he sinks deeper.
His other hand pulls your leg to an angle that allows him to reach your sweetest spot.
It makes you arch your back with an abrupt cry.
"Fuck, Richard!"
"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His lips find your other cheek, then your ear and your neck.
"I burn for you." His thrusts start steady and slow, like the flames nearing, the heat building with a promise of delicious ecstasy. "I have burnt for you ever since…Ever since…" He pauses, and you roll your hips.'
"Ever since?" You want to know, and you want him to continue moving, and you want it all. You want all of him, you have, for a good while. And tonight you took the risk at the diner.
"Fuck, I don't—I don't remember, I just—" He grunts, hips picking up pace.
You moan into his shoulder, pressing against your lips, and bite down. Not savagely but in a sensual way, you have wanted to for a while.
"Fuck!" His hips move faster, and you hook your legs around his hips. "God, you are so beautiful—finally mine—y—ou always have been."
You pay no mind to his whisper, too wrapped up in the delicious feeling of his length rubbing against your depth.
It makes you making you lock your legs around his hips and pull him closer. But he goes a step further with his thumb coming for your bud.
You are suddenly hit with the hot burst of pleasure, scattering into a thousand pieces of ecstatic high.
The rest of his whispers do not ever register in your mind. His free hand intertwining its fingers with yours, and it strangely feels more intimate than him being inside you as you both rock together into wild bliss.
"You have no idea…" He speaks slowly, whispering against your ear as he begins to slow down from his high.
"About what?" You ask, thought os sleep already filling your mind.
He does not answer, simply kisses your forehead.
You decide things can wait till the morning, right now, the feeling of him pulling out and wrapping his arms around you is too blissful a bubble to burst tonight.
****
I was hit with sudden inspiration to write about Richard Ramsay. So everyone, suffer.
