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wildlyironicbee · 11 months

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@inklings-challenge

This...is about as finished as it's going to be for now: time and the characters got away from me.

But, that being said, I had a ton of fun with this—it’s been ages and ages since I’ve pantsed anything. (And I don’t think I’m quite ready to leave this world alone just yet, so maybe I'll finish it to my satisfaction someday!)

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Stairs to Nowhere

News of the death of the king took three months to reach the Gap.

News, even news as important as this, always took three months to reach the Gap—that little sliver of no man’s marshland wedged between the northern border of Meath and the southern border of Kithage. It was said among both kingdoms that only the strangest of folk lived there: those with nowhere else to go or no desire to be found.

Marta, as she was calling herself these days, ran the only tavern; a small, stooped thing aptly called The Battered Kettle. She had no love for the king and would’ve been unbothered by the news if the messenger—a screeching kestrel—hadn’t swooped into the tavern in the middle of the dinner rush and startled her so badly she dropped a full tray, shattering several mugs and spilling ale down her skirt and all over her freshly mopped floor.

“Oh, Rat’s bones,” Marta swore. She swatted at the kestrel with her now empty tray, flicking foamy ale across the room. “You nasty thing!”

Her tray never came close. The kestrel ignored her spluttering and swooped down to land on the bartop. Patrons sitting at the bar hastily pulled their plates and cups back as it spread its wings wide and cried in a loud voice, “The King of Meath is dead!”

There were a few surprised gasps. Across every table, heads leaned together, and murmurs spread throughout the tavern.

“Has an heir been chosen?” called the butcher from the back of the room, his voice loud and clear (as was polite when speaking to a king’s messenger).

The kestrel flapped its wings and said, “No heir has come forth! The chamberlain seeks those whose face matches the other! Only those such as these shall be crowned!”

In the middle of the room, Marta cut herself on a piece of broken mug. She swore quietly, sucking on her cut finger.

“That old chestnut again?” said the blacksmith from the bar. He turned his head and spat on the floor. “Didn’t they try that the last time?”

They did. Oh, they did. Marta remembered.

But what she said was, “Don’t you spit on my floor again, Riad.”

At least Riad had the decency to look sheepish. “Beg pardon, Miss Marta,” he said. “Forgot my place.” He scowled at the kestrel over his drink. “Just don’t like messengers poking their beaks where they aren’t needed, is all.”

The kestrel’s head twisted back and forth as it looked at Riad, but it didn’t rise to its own defense. As the minutes stretched on and it became clear the kestrel would say nothing else, conversation throughout the tavern resumed.

Marta stalked behind the bar with her tray full of broken pottery and flung it on the counter. It skidded a foot, shards clinking, as she quickly bandaged her hurt finger and wrung out her ale-soaked skirt over the mop bucket to try and hide her trembling hands.

It had been years—years and years and years—since she’d heard that wretched prophecy and now here it was again, thrown back into her face like her journey had never mattered. That Rachel had never—

Cold air hit her cheeks, and she raised her head just in time to see a tall man open the front door and slip inside, his cloak drawn close about his shoulders and his hood up over his dark hair, damp with rain. Marta, recognizing him, waved him over just as the kestrel spotted him and screeched again:

“The king of Meath is dead! The chamberlain has sent messengers to every province and town!” the kestrel said, flapping its wings. “He seeks those whose face matches the other!”

From the other side of the tavern, someone called, “You said that already!” to scattered laughter.

“How long ago was this message made?” Marta asked the kestrel as the tall man came behind the bar to stand beside her.

“Three months and five days,” the kestrel said.

Marta nodded, expecting this. “And no one has been found in all that time?”

“No one,” the kestrel answered. It hopped back and forth on the bartop and looked at her expectantly.

Marta sighed and reached for a jar of birdseed on a shelf beneath the bartop. The kestrel looked down its beak at it before screeching at Marta indignantly, ruffling its feathers.

“The last messenger we got was a pigeon,” Marta said with a shrug. “Take it or leave it.”

The kestrel gave a haughty flap of its wings, said, “Leave it,” and took off. Someone pulled the door open, and it took to the gray skies and disappeared.

“And good riddance,” Marta muttered. She turned to the man beside her and smiled warmly. “Narl, take off your cloak and stay awhile. What can I do you for?”

Narl didn’t return her smile. “I need your help,” he said quietly. “I’ve…found someone. Two someones.”

“Two someones,” Marta repeated. She glanced behind him and, seeing no one, raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve got them squared away,” he said with a little shake of his head. “They tend to stick out, if you catch my meaning.”

Marta stilled. “In what way?” she asked. It was a struggle to keep her voice steady.

Narl gave her a look. “You know what way.”

Marta nodded. She did.

Instead of saying so, she turned away from Narl to grab more mugs to replace the ones she’d broken and filled them with ale from the large keg behind the bar. Carefully arranging them on her tray, and then her tray on one hand, she squeezed past Narl and said in a low voice, “Come back when everyone’s gone.”

Narl inclined his head and slipped back out the door as Marta returned to her patrons with a fixed smile on her face and a slow dread prickling like sweat down her back.

~~~

The two someones were a boy and a girl, maybe twelve, maybe thirteen, maybe younger—Marta had never been good at guessing ages. Brown hair, brown eyes. Twins, Marta could tell that for certain. She could always tell when people were twins.

The kids stood behind Narl and peered at her curiously. Narl was right, they did stick out. Their faces—dirty and hungry—could have belonged to any child with the misfortune of growing up in the Gap, but their clothes were another story and Marta stared with no small amount of wonder at their puffer coats, dyed brighter colors than any dye in the Gap, even obscured as they were underneath a layer of dirt. Then, she looked down and, oh Rat’s bones, the girl was wearing Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Marta couldn’t help but laugh in delight at the sight of them, ignoring the way her eyes stung.

But when the kids started at her laughter and reached for each other’s hands, she stifled it immediately with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Oh, forgive me; come in, come in,” she said, smiling. “You must be starving.”

The kids stared at her blankly. The boy narrowed his eyes and clutched at his sister’s hand and said nothing.

Marta’s eyes narrowed too, but because of the kids. She turned her ire on Narl. “They don’t understand us, do they.”

Narl pressed his lips together and slowly shook his head. “They speak English.”

Marta scowled. English. Of course. She hadn’t heard anyone speak English since—

With a shaky breath, she banished those thoughts and started over.

“My name is Marta,” she said to the kids, carefully sounding out the words. The English felt strange in her mouth—too harsh, too foreign. “What are your names?”

The kids stared at her.

“You speak English,” the boy said.

“Yes,” Marta said. “Though, please forgive me, I am a little rusty.” She paused. “Are you...hungry?”

“Yeah,” the girl said immediately. The boy frowned at her, and she frowned right back. “What? I am!”

The boy’s frown deepened as he turned to Marta. “We don’t have any money.”

“I assumed,” Marta said with a wry smile. “Narl can cover the bill, can’t you, Narl?”

Narl narrowed his eyes. “You know very well I don’t know what you said, so no.”

Marta snorted. “He said he’d be happy to,” she said to the kids.

The girl leaned against her brother. “I don’t think he said that,” she whispered. The boy nodded.

Marta laughed and gestured vaguely at the tables and upturned chairs in the dining room. “Sit, sit,” she said. “I’ll grab, uh.” Her mind blanked on the English word. “Stew? I think is the word?”

She disappeared into the kitchen before either of the kids could correct her and ladled out three bowls and arranged them on a tray beside a loaf of bread. Taking slow, deep breaths, she stepped back out into the dining room.

The kids (and Narl) had pulled down a few chairs and arranged themselves at a table in front of the hearth. The dwindling fire cast strange shadows across their faces. The boy and girl leaned against each other, whispering in low voices, while Narl wrote something in a small notebook. All three looked up when she returned and set the food down in front of them.

Narl dug into his meal immediately, humming his enjoyment, but the kids poked cautiously at the contents of their bowls, wrinkling their noses.

“It’s...a kind of soup. I’m not sure what the vegetables are called in English,” Marta told them. When the boy gave her another suspicious look, she tried again. “Just...think of it like, um...” She cast around for the right word before settling on, “Potato? Soup.”

The girl immediately brightened. “Oh, okay!” she chirped, scooping up a large spoonful. “I love potato soup.”

The boy watched her carefully as she took a bite and smiled. She nudged him. “It’s so good, dude, try it.”

The boy did, slowly at first, but after two cautious bites he devoured the rest of the bowl with relish, while the girl did the same. Marta was quick to slice up the bread and slather it with butter before handing it to them too. She didn’t need to explain this one—she’d learned early on that bread was bread no matter what universe you were in.

When the bowls were emptied and the bread reduced to crumbs, the kids leaned back in their chairs, full and happy and more than a little sleepy. But Marta couldn’t let them go yet: she had questions.

“Alright, now,” Marta said, leaning across the table. “How long have you been here?”

“Uh…two days?” the girl said. She looked to her brother for confirmation, and relaxed when he nodded. “Yeah, two days.”

Narl nodded his own confirmation when Marta’s eyes flicked to him.

“And what are your names?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s easy,” the girl said. “I’m Laura and this” – she elbowed her brother – “is Link.”

Marta blinked. “Like—like from The Legend of Zelda?”

Link slammed his palm down on the table hard enough to make the dishes rattle and pointed at her. “I knew it!” he cried. “You’re from our world!”

Laura gasped and stared at Marta. Her eyes were very, very round.

Narl leaned back in his chair fiddling with his pipe in his hands. “I take it he figured it out?” he asked mildly.

Marta glared at him. “You’re not thinking of smoking in my tavern, are you?”

Narl rolled his eyes but put his pipe back in his pocket. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“How did you get here?” Link asked excitedly. “When did you get here?”

“Did you come here the same way as us?” Laura asked.

“Depends,” Marta said, folding her arms across her chest. “How did you get here?”

Link launched into their story. They’d been camping with their parents up in the mountains. Laura and Link had gotten their own tent this year, and when they’d seen the small, worn-down stone stairs in the woods (The stairs that led to nowhere, Marta mouthed along with him), well. It had been the perfect spot to pitch their tent, with the stairs as their own little front porch. They’d gone to sleep that first night, safe and full from hot dogs and s’mores…and had awoken to an entirely new forest in an entirely new world with no tent, no parents, and a very startled Narl staring at them.

After that, things were…messy. Marta remembered her own first days in Kithage—remembered the shock of waking up in another world, the language barrier, the strange food, the soldiers waving swords in her and Rachel’s faces—so. She knew a little about what these two must have gone through to get all the way from the border of Kithage to here.

“But Mister Narl was with us the whole time,” Laura said, smiling sweetly at the man in question (and Narl, who only understood his name in that sentence, smiled back). “So it wasn’t all bad.”

“What year was it when you left?” Marta asked.

“2012,” Link said, and Marta blinked in surprise. She and Rachel had left in 2023.

“Can you help us get home?” Link asked quietly.

Marta considered her answer. Laura was still smiling, but Link watched her with a wary expression, and she knew that he knew she didn’t have a good answer for him.

She couldn’t lie to him. “I don’t know.”

Link’s shoulders slumped and Laura reached for his hand again.

“But—you’ll try?” Laura asked.

Marta looked at Narl, but his expression didn’t change. She sighed. “I…I don’t know. I—it’s been a—a long time. For me. And I never—I haven’t found—”

“It’s okay,” Laura said. “We can help you get home too.”

She reached across the table and patted Marta’s hand once.

Marta drew her hand back, startled, and barked out a short laugh. “Thank you, kiddo, but I’ve been here over twenty years,” she said. “This is my home.”

Link’s mouth fell open. “Twenty years?”

“That’s horrible!” Laura cried.

Marta stood with a loud scrape of her chair and started gathering up their dishes. “It’s very late,” she said. “We can…talk about this tomorrow. Okay?”

“But—” Laura said.

Marta looked at Narl. “Do you need a place?” she asked not in English.

“Please.”

Marta nodded once. “I’ll set up a couple rooms.” She eyed the puffer coats. “And…I’ll see what I can do about clothes.” She took a deep breath, let it out again. “Rachel’s should fit her, but him...”

“I’ll handle his clothes tomorrow,” Narl said.

Marta gave him a tight smile. “Thank you.”

She took the dishes to the kitchen. When she returned, Link and Laura sat on the edge of their seats, looking like they still had a thousand questions, and Marta had no desire to answer them yet (or at all).

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s find you two a bed.”

“We’re not tired,” Link said, yawning.

Marta smiled despite herself. “Let’s find you one anyway.”

“’Kay,” Laura said. She nudged her brother, and they stood on unsteady feet and followed Marta upstairs.

The Battered Kettle was not a well-established inn. Visitors were exceptionally rare in the Gap, and when they did visit, they rarely stayed long. But Marta had a few rooms above the dining room set aside for those rare occasions, and it was to one of these she led the kids.

She left them standing in the doorway as she busied herself with turning down the covers on the large (and somewhat dusty, but that couldn’t be helped now) bed and starting a fire in the small hearth.

“It’s too late for a bath, I’m afraid,” Marta said to fill the silence. “Too dark outside. But we can see to that in the morning—and see to some new clothes too. Help you blend in.”

“Oh. Thank you,” Laura said softly. She rubbed her eyes.

Link opened his mouth and hesitated. Marta waited, sitting back on her heels in front of a cheery fire, but he slowly closed his mouth again. Whatever he wanted to ask could apparently wait until tomorrow.

Marta stood, joints creaking. “Bathroom’s a chamber pot in the corner, I’m afraid,” she said, snorting when both kids wrinkled their noses. “I’ll leave a basin of water to wash for you outside the door in the morning. Good night.”

She heard a soft, “Good night, Miss Marta,” as she closed the door behind her.

~~~

“How’d you even get them to come with you?” Marta asked Narl later, two drinks in and the kids long asleep.

Narl shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I remembered a few phrases you used to say.”

Marta groaned. She remembered what kind of phrases she used to say. “Narl, please tell me you didn’t swear at them.”

Narl’s cheeks tinged pink. “I…might’ve?” When Marta made a slightly strangled sound, he said defensively, “Well, it worked didn’t it? They laughed, even.”

“Oh I’m sure they did,” Marta said. She and Rachel had been very...creative when they’d first arrived and realized no one understood them. If Narl remembered even a tiny portion of the stuff she used to say…

Marta thumped her forehead on the table. Narl laughed, and she rolled her head to the side to look up at him.

“So, what’s your plan, then?” she asked. Narl sobered immediately and she continued, “Because they’re not going to be able to stay here forever. Someone will come looking.”

Narl grimaced and Marta sat up.

“Someone’s already come looking, haven’t they?”

Narl made a soft sound of confirmation in the back of his throat. He took his pipe out of his pocket and fiddled with it.

Marta nodded. She’d expected as much. “Which is it—Meath or Kithage?”

“Meath.” Narl shrugged one shoulder. “The chamberlain isn’t so anxious to crown anyone after three months of power. If I had to guess.”

“Mm,” Marta said. Narl’s guesses weren’t always far off the mark.

She hesitated before her next question. “Why did you bring them here? Be honest.”

“I want you to come with us,” Narl said simply. “To Meath. See them crowned.”

Marta bristled. “No.”

“Becs—Marta, listen. They need someone,” Narl insisted. “Someone who understands what they’re going through.”

“And that someone does not need to be me,” Marta said. “How—how can you even ask me that? After everything we went through—after Rachel?”

Narl raised his hands in supplication. “I know—I know I’m asking for a lot—”

“Try impossible—”

“But they need you,” Narl said, pointing fiercely up the stairs. “I can keep them safe, but I can’t understand them, language barrier aside.” He grunted in frustration. “I can’t be what they need.”

“And what do they need?” Marta snapped.

“A guide,” Narl said. “A—A teacher. Someone who knows—”

But Marta was already shaking her head. “No. Narl, I...I can’t be that. For them. Not after—”

She stopped. Sighed. “Those kids won’t want to rule anyway. They just want to go home.”

Narl was quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think they’re going to have a choice.”

“I did,” Marta said harshly. “Why are they any different?”

“You didn’t,” Narl said, looking down at the table. “You might think you did, but you didn’t. Your choice was made for you when Rachel died.”

Marta pushed back from the table so fast her chair crashed to the floor behind her. She ignored it. “I’m going to bed.”

She left before he could say anything to stop her.

#inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #theme: food #theme: shelter #theme: clothing #story: unfinished

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hollybee8917 · 2 years

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Shades of Blue

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Grace Macon (OC)

Plot: Grace Macon meets Lloyd Hansen and falls hard for him.

Warnings: Smut, Dubious consent, loss of virginity, alcohol use, use of potential date rape drugs, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex, swearing, Dirty talk

Grace Macon sighed as she sat at the table with her friends. She was so tired of being dragged around by her friends, Marta Lewis, Kaia Rhodes and Rose Timmons. Tonight, she was at a bar surrounded by her drunk friends. She herself had been nursing a Stella for twenty minutes. The brunette let her eyes wander the room then Grace saw him across the loud bar.

The guy had a mustache and a pompadour fade. He flashed her a smile and instantly she was hooked. Grace leaned over to Rose who frequented this bar, “Who is that?”

Rose looked over to the man and shuddered, “That’s Lloyd Hansen. He’s a bit mysterious. He doesn’t really talk to many people. Just comes in and drinks scotch. The guy is gorgeous. Ladies always go up to him but he never leaves with any. I heard that he is bad news.”

Kaia whistled, “I wouldn’t mind sharing in a little of that bad news.”

The young woman turned back to her friends and polished off her drink. A server came over to the table with a tray of drinks and placed one in front of Grace, “This is for you.”

The brunette protested, “I didn’t order this.”

Her server jerked her head toward the stranger, “It’s from Lloyd.”

Grace felt a pull to look across the room. Lloyd raised his glass to her and she smiled shyly.

He drained his glass and sauntered over to the table of young women, “Hello ladies. How are we doing tonight?”

Kaia piped up, “Doing good, handsome. How are you?”

Lloyd gazed directly at Grace, completely ignoring the other women, “I’m doing good. May I steal you away from your friends for a moment?”

This time, Marta spoke up, “Ooh, three cuties over there are giving us a look. Kaia, Rose, let’s go.”

Before Grace could voice her objections, her friends were gone, leaving her with Lloyd.

Lloyd motioned to an empty seat, “May I join you?”

Grace smiled, “Sure, why not?”

He gave a devilish grin before plopping onto the chair, “Because, sunshine, I am a complete stranger.”

The young woman bit her lip. There was something so appealing about Lloyd but also so dangerous. Her brain was screaming for her to just walk away. The man was so intoxicating, so irresistible. His eyes were a shade of stormy blue that just pulled the innocent girl in.

Grace took a sip of the drink before her before stopping, “This tastes funny. What did you slip into it?”

A chuckle then he responded, “Oh, nothing is in your drink, pumpkin. You just think it is. Here, take another sip.”

She obliged and drank from the glass before her all the while, Lloyd looked on. He finally took the girl by the hand and leaned in to whisper, “Come with me.”

Grace nodded and rose from her chair, following Lloyd through the bar and out the back door. Once in the alley, the man led her to a beautiful silver Lexus LC sports car and helped her into the passenger seat then got into the driver’s side and pulled away from the bar.

Slowly, Grace began to feel groggier and asked Lloyd, “Where are we going?”

He cocked an eyebrow, “Would you like me to take you to your place, or mine?”

Without missing a beat, Grace replied, “Mine. I live at 1743 Ollerton Ave.”

Lloyd chuckled, “Thank you for giving me your address, Princess.”

Ten minutes later, the Lexus pulled up to a home that was definitely not Grace’s so she was even more confused, “Where are we?”

Lloyd parked the car, “Here, drink some water. We are at my place. It was on the way and I had to pick something up.”

Grace nodded in compliance. She was feeling thirsty so she took a swig from the water bottle. The man got out of the car but leaned in before leaving, “I will be right back. This will only take a couple of minutes then I’ll take you home.”

Grace pulled her hair from under her seatbelt, “Okay.”

Then he was gone.

Grace checked her watch after what felt like an eternity but her vision was a tad fuzzy. Staring out the window, she waited for Lloyd to return. After five minutes, he did. Instead of getting in the driver’s side, Lloyd opened the passenger door, “I am having trouble finding what I am looking for. Maybe you can come help me, Buttercup.”

Without a word, Grace had unbuckled herself and was out of the car, following Lloyd into his home.

Once inside, Grace was surprised when Lloyd locked the car from the doorway then turned and locked the front door itself. He spun back around to her, “Now this is where our fun begins. Come here to me.”

Grace’s feet moved her to him as if they thought independently of her brain. He stared down at her lips, “So beautiful. I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

She nodded and he captured her lips with his own. The kiss started soft then grew more impassioned causing her to moan. She felt the tickle of his mustache against her nose as he leaned further into the kiss. Suddenly, he pulled back, “Do you want to go to the bedroom? We can sit and talk there.”

Grace whimpered at the loss of contact and softly answered, “Yes.”

Lloyd intertwined his fingers with hers and led Grace up a flight of stairs to a doorway. Opening the door, he motioned for Grace to pass through first. The woman did so and was stunned at the beauty of the room. It was a true bachelor's bedroom with dark wood furniture, a lovely fireplace and a stocked bar in the corner. She jumped when Lloyd shut the door, “Oh. Now what?”

He drew close to her. “Now,” Lloyd whispered, “you take off your shirt.”

Slowly, Grace lifted her arms and removed her top. A growl came from Lloyd as he captured the young woman’s lips once more. His eyes drifted over Grace’s bra-covered torso. The pink lace hiding the objects of his desire. Lloyd swiftly reached up and unclasped the young woman’s purple lacy bra and it landed on the floor. Sweeping his eyes over her now bare chest, Lloyd commanded, “Sit on the bed, my dear.”

Grace once again complied.

Lloyd sat down beside her and took one breast in hand, kneading her sensitive nipple then he took it into her mouth causing Grace to yelp. He looked up, “Relax. I’ve got you.”

Once again took her into his mouth and began to suck. Once satisfied with one, he turned his attention to the other. After some time on her breasts, the man looked at the young woman and commanded, “Let me help you get those pants off.”

With one hand, he unbuttoned the pants and she lifted her ass in order to help him remover the clothing.

Lloyd’s eyes grew darker with lust, “Of course you are wearing matching panties. Let’s check something before we remove them, hmm?”

He let his hand slip down onto the cloth and quicky remarked, “My, my, my. You’re so wet. Is this all for me?”

Grace whimpered, “Yes.”

Lloyd smirked, “Let’s see what’s underneath, shall we?”

She lifted her ass, “Please. Please.”

Off came the underwear, leaving Grace completely exposed. Her host smiled, “Soon, my darling, soon I shall have what I desire. First, I must prepare you.”

He removed his shirt, tank top, belt, shoes and pants. Soon, Lloyd was only left in his boxers. The young woman was awed by his appearance. Tattoos littered Lloyd’s body and underneath his muscles were cut deep and his arms were large. Truly, Lloyd was the vision of a Greek God.

Happy with his state of undress, the gun for hire returned to his quarry. With his right forefinger, he traced lines up and down her slick, “So wet. Just for me. Say it. Say it’s just for me.”

Grace obeyed, “Just for you, only you, Lloyd.”

He chuckled, “Good girl.” Lowering himself down between her legs, Lloyd placed kisses to each of Grace’s inner thighs before moving to her more sensitive areas. Finally, he licked a stripe up and down her pussy.

His eyes widened, “My god, you are so fucking sweet. What’s this? Are you a virgin?”

Grace sighed and Lloyd popped her thigh, “Answer me.”

The woman on the bed mewled, “Yes.”

A large grin crossed his features, “Oh, I am going to enjoy this. This is so good.”

He tucked his head back down between Grace’s legs and ate like a man starved.

Lloyd’s mustache tickled Grace’s sensitive nub causing her to cry out. “That’s it,” Lloyd cooed, “Let it go.”

Grace came with a gush and Lloyd sucked it all down, “My god, so good. That’s it, baby. Drown me.”

Grace twitched and cried out, “Lloyd! Lloyd! Fuck, Lloyd! Please fuck me, Lloyd!”

He raised his chin, “Is that what you really want? You want my fat cock buried deep in that sweet virgin pussy?”

Shivering as she came down from her orgasm, “I-I think so. Maybe?”

Without any further pressing, Lloyd dropped his boxers causing his fat erection to slap back up to his stomach. He was bigger than any man Grace had ever seen. She could see the veins in his long, thick cock. He had to be at least six inches long.

Grace gulped, “Will you fit?”

The man raised his eyebrow, “Of course I will.”

Lloyd took his cock in hand and gave himself two swift pumps before rubbing himself through the slick left on Grace’s folds. “Now, this may sting a little and you will feel a stretch, but don’t worry, I will feel good once it is in.”

He rubbed up and down in the slick once more before landing at the hole. Lloyd watched Grace’s eyes widen in shock as he pushed inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter into the woman below him. Grace cried out in pain as Lloyd bottomed out. The man groaned, “Your pussy is made for me. So tight. So desperate for this thick cock. I am going to have some fun with you.”

He pulled gently out then slammed back into her causing Grace to scream.

Lloyd looked down as he pulled himself backwards and noted his dick was covered in blood, “Well, well, well. You’re not a virgin anymore.”

Then he snapped into her again causing a cry. This continued for a few minutes before the man grabbed his prize and flipped her over, “Let’s try something different shall we?”

Grace mewed and pulled herself onto all fours as Lloyd pushed into her from behind.

The new angle caused Grace to shudder with each push in. Elicit moans escaped her mouth, “Oh, God. Lloyd, please. More, harder.”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You want it rough, baby?”

Grace whined, “I think so.”

Lloyd laughed before grabbing Grace’s hair and thrusting even more ferociously into the woman below him.

Filled with lust and ecstasy, Grace’s cries became louder, “I’m going to cum! I’m going to cum!”

“Cum for me, sunshine,” Lloyd murmured seductively.

And cum Grace did with a loud shout. Soon, Lloyd’s thrusts became jerky and his pants turned into groans as he painted Grace’s walls with his thick spend. With a slap to Grace’s bare ass, He kissed her shoulder and pushed her onto the mattress, “Rest now. We have a few more rounds to go before we sleep.”

Grace was already gone.

Lloyd quickly dressed, headed to the garage to grab a couple of filled gas cans. He placed them in his trunk then jumped into his car.

Grace was not going home.

This one is for you, @joannaliceevans-fanficblog. Hope you enjoy it.

#lloyd hansen #the gray man #lloyd hansen smut

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princessw0lf · 2 years

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#griddlehark - 11 posts

#nona the ninth - 11 posts

#hmm - 8 posts

#harrow the ninth - 7 posts

#miss violet . . . your hand in marriage . . . - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#yeah summons make the game doable that's the point. my friend latenna is going to shoot magic arrows at anything vaguely threatening for me

My Top Posts in 2022:

SPOILERS FOR THE FINAL SEASON OF 'THE CROWN' TO FOLLOW:

125 notes - Posted September 8, 2022

Gideon Nav doesn't know what a fish is. I think of this often.

128 notes - Posted March 11, 2022

I've been thinking about that one scene in GtN where Babs flexes/stretches getting out of the pool and is disappointed that nobody checks out his abs or anything.

Who is he trying to show off for? So like, if I recall, the people there are Coronabeth (Who's basically a sister to him I guess?), Isaac (he's 14) and Gideon. Marta and Colum are in the training room I think, but clearly not paying any attention at that point.

So did Naberius Tern take a look at Gideon, see her entire image and the constant heat haze of lesbian radiation coming off her and go "Eh, may as well give it a shot"

The absolute audacity of the man

130 notes - Posted August 14, 2022

Gideon: (Waking up and sitting bolt upright next to Harrow in bed): "Palamadeez nuts"

184 notes - Posted May 11, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

I'm sad that Gideon only got to be Isaac and Jeannemary's cool big sister for like, ten minutes

358 notes - Posted August 11, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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byneddiedingo · 2 years

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The Sacrifice (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1986)

Cast: Erland Josephson, Susan Fleetwood, Allan Edwall, Guðrún Gísladóttir, Sven Wollter, Valérie Mairesse, Filippa Franzén, Tommy Kjellqvist, Per Kellman, Tommy Nordahl. Screenplay: Andrei Tarkovsky. Cinematography: Sven Nykvist. Production design: Anna Asp. Film editing: Michal Leszczylowski, Andrei Tarkovsky.

Andrei Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice was his last film, finished only months before his death, and is in many ways extraordinary. But I'm afraid it tempts me to sarcastic assessments like "art-house profundity," a rude and inadequate phrase that I might have used about the film if I didn't respect its maker so much. For The Sacrifice is unquestionably a visionary film, drawn from Tarkovsky's heart and soul. I just wish there were a little more brain holding heart and soul in check. Is it my habitual agnosticism that makes me bridle against the protagonist's quest for metaphysical certainty? The search for God has produced cinematic masterworks like Carl Theodor Dreyer's Ordet (1955), Robert Bresson's Diary of a Country Priest (1951), Tarkovsky's own Andrei Rublev (1966), and, most appropriate in this context, Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal (1957). The Bergman connection suggests itself because Tarkovsky made his film in Sweden, with Bergman's frequent leading man Erland Josephson and cinematographer Sven Nykvist, in a location, Gotland, that resembles the island of Fårö, the location of many of Bergman's own films. But The Sacrifice seems to me to take some of the worst aspects of some of Bergman's films -- the rather histrionic treatment of people's search for faith in Through a Glass Darkly (1961) and The Silence (1963) -- and intensify it. Precipitating the crisis of The Sacrifice with the threat of nuclear holocaust warps the film away from psychological truth into didacticism. One of the reasons Andrei Rublev succeeds is that, like The Seventh Seal, it is set in an age of faith. Both films depict the essential downside to spiritual certainty -- bigotry and fanaticism and a loss of essential humanity -- while balancing it with a portrayal of the rewards of faith: kindness and creativity. But to liken the plague that threatens the world of The Seventh Seal to the threat of nuclear annihilation misses the point: For the medieval world, the Plague was a test of faith; for the modern world, the Bomb is a test of humanity. The Sacrifice, I think, misses that point. Moreover, I think Tarkovsky's style -- enigmatic, elliptical, deliberately obscure -- becomes a stumbling block in attempts to respond both emotionally and intellectually to the film. By failing to make relationships among the characters more explicit -- Is Marta (Filippa Franzén) Alexander's daughter? What is her connection to the doctor, Victor (Sven Wollter)? -- Tarkovsky forces us to spend a lot of our attention on matters of simple identification, distracting us from what should be the central focus of the film. And what, exactly, is that?

#The Sacrifice #Andrei Tarkovsky

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your-name-is-jim · 2 years

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Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

This became a pretty long post, sorry.

I noticed something that I haven't seen before in Kirk/Spock analysis, so I'd like to talk about it. As I said other times, I'm aware that Star Trek fans in over half a century have probably already written everything about the most popular ship, but that's not going to stop me from adding my own words. :)

What I want to talk about is in the episode Whom Gods Destroy. I feel like this episode is pretty underrated among K/S shippers. Nowadays, it might be because of this part:

"Kirk and Spock call each other brothers, this episode tries to no-homo them!"

Short answer: No, it doesn't.

Long answer: This is not what I actually want to focus on, but I understand that it's important, so I'll try to give an explanation. When we watch TOS, we always need to remember when it was made. I know it's not easy (trust me, I made that mistake too), but unfortunately we can't forget that, in the '60s, homosexuality was still considered a mental illness (if not worse, depending on the people/country), and portraying it in a positive way in a mainstream American show was NOT an option. At the time, it wasn't uncommon for queer people to call each other "brothers/sisters" as a socially acceptable way to say "we love each other", "we're each other's most important person", "we have something special that is different from friendship".

Does it mean Kirk and Spock say "brothers" when they mean "lovers"? Not necessarily, of course, but we need to remember that, unlike contemporary shows where two men can actually claim to be brothers to mean "we're close but not gay", in the past it could have meant "we're close and maybe also gay". I'm not saying it's canon, but the interpretation is valid.

As you can see, Garth strongly disagrees with Kirk and Spock when they say they're brothers. :D Unfortunately, it's from the wrong reason: he's claiming that they only have a captain-first officer relationship, without feelings involved. And the episode definitely wants us to think that he's wrong! Kirk and Spock love each other! They have very special feelings for each other, feelings that the word "friendship" wouldn't completely convey. I choose to interpret their "brotherhood" in that positive way, also keeping in mind that Spock does say Kirk is speaking "somewhat figuratively", so he's aware they're not actual adopted siblings. :)

Of course, I can't forget to add what every K/S fan knows: if we consider Roddenberry's novel canon (or at least canonically relevant to a degree), Vulcans use the same word, t'hy'la, to say "friend", "brother", "lover" or a combination of at least two of them. That just makes everything easy! Every time Kirk and Spock call each other "friends" or "brothers" in canon, we can just assume they mean t'hy'la. Checkmate! :D

Okay, back to Whom Gods Destroy. If that episode isn't as "no homo" as we initially thought, what makes it so good for K/S shippers to the point that I'm writing a long post about it? Well, a couple of things. The first one happens before the "brothers" speech, and it's this:

In context, Marta claims to write poetry, so she recites one of "her" poems… which is very obviously Shakespeare. Star Trek writers chose one of the most famous English sonnets of all time on purpose, and it's clear because they made 100% sure every single person watching the episode wouldn't miss it:

So, okay, she didn't write it. We got it. It's Star Trek and its Shakespeare references, nothing new.

Is that all? Hm, I'm not sure. Because Shakespeare's sonnet 18 might be extremely famous, but it's not the only famous poem Shakespeare wrote. And even if it was, since the characters were going to point out that "hey that's Shakespeare" anyway, why did Star Trek writers chose that sonnet specifically? Why did they choose one of the sonnets Shakespeare wrote for another man, to express his beauty? To express his love for him?

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

They could have chosen one of the sonnets Shakespeare wrote for a woman. There are a lot more! But no, Marta quotes a love poem by a man for another man, and the camera shows us this:

Just two bros, sitting together, listening to Shakespeare's words about a young man's beauty 'cause they're not gay.

Now… I know, I know. Even nowadays, Shakespeare is too famous to be universally accepted as queer. There's always going to be academics who think "those sonnets were platonic!"; at the time Star Trek was made, I wouldn't be surprised if almost everyone thought "Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?" was about either platonic love or love for a woman (the latter used to be a theory too, but it was proved wrong). On the other hand, the queer reading has also been discussed for centuries, and supported by famous academics too, like Oscar Wilde. So even in this case, we can't really know what Star Trek writers had in mind. Did they just pick the most popular sonnet without thinking too hard? Did they try to add gay subtext to the scene? Well, it certainly looks gay to me. :)

And now, the best part! What, you thought it was over? Nope, I said I was going to talk about "a couple of things", and Shakespeare was just the first one. Because if you think that his sonnet was probably not meant to be gay in context, and after that Kirk and Spock call each other brothers, and that's also not gay in your opinion… well, maybe we can add a little more fuel to the potential gay subtext.

So, what is Marta doing here? Quoting poetry again.

Right after their conversation about brotherhood and the loyalty of a crew, Garth gets mad at Spock ("Remove this animal!"); Garth's men bring Spock away, and Garth asks Kirk the password to get to the Enterprise. He tells Kirk that he'll make him beg for death. That's when Marta suddenly starts reciting another poem. This time, though, there's a big difference from the first one: the audience can tell it's probably another reference because of her previous behavior, but it's hard to recognize. It's not Shakespeare. It's not even the most popular poem by that author, and she's also quoting it a little wrong.

This is a subtle reference. The average Star Trek fan doesn't know what it is. I also didn't. So, of course, I got curious, and this is what I found:

A. E. Housman, English poet (1859 – 1936)

XIX.

In midnights of November, When Dead Man’s Fair is nigh, And danger in the valley, And anger in the sky,

Around the huddling homesteads The leafless timber roars, And the dead call the dying And finger at the doors.

Oh, yonder faltering fingers Are hands I used to hold; Their false companion drowses And leaves them in the cold.

Oh, to the bed of ocean, To Africk and to Ind, I will arise and follow Along the rainy wind.

The night goes out and under With all its train forlorn; Hues in the east assemble And cocks crow up the morn.

The living are the living And dead the dead will stay, And I will sort with comrades That face the beam of day.

Alfred Edward Housman is another English poet, but very different from William Shakespeare: he lived just a few decades before Star Trek was made. Why choosing him? Maybe because he wrote a lot about men dying during a war, and it's relevant because Garth killed a lot of people and wants to bring war to the galaxy. We will probably never know, but after a little research, I realized that Housman is definitely an interesting-- no, a fascinating choice.

As I said before, the poem Marta recites doesn't look like one of Housman's most popular works, and it's hard to find something specific about it online. It doesn't even have a title, that "XIX" simply means that it's the 19th poem in the volume it's part of. So what is so fascinating about it? Well…

The title of the volume is "Last Poems". I didn't use Wikipedia as my only source, but in this case, I think it can explain context better than me:

OH.

So the poem Marta is quoting in front of Kirk, the poem she wants to know if Kirk likes, is not just a poem about death: it's part of a volume a man wrote for the man he was in love with.

Wait, again? There are two poems in this episode, and both of them are by male authors who wrote them for the man they loved? That doesn't really look like a coincidence anymore.

It's subtle, for sure, especially the second one. The average person watching the episode probably doesn't recognize Housman, doesn't know anything about his life. The average person in front of their TV sees Marta trying to seduce Kirk right after "her" poem, so everything looks heterosexual, right?

Yeah, that's what it looks like. But it's the surface, nothing more.

Because unlike Shakespeare, I didn't find discourse about Housman's sexual orientation: there were probably rumors about his homosexuality when he was alive as well, and after his death, it wasn't really a mystery. A Housman reader, even in the 60s, probably knew.

So, yes, this episode has two poems. Two poets that in different times wrote for a man they loved. Could it be that Whom Gods Destroy is also, at least partially, about love between two men? Well, I basically already said it when I talked about the "brothers" conversation, but let's think about it again. Except for the last few minutes, Kirk and Spock are the only two characters from the main cast on that planet. There's another man, Dr. Cory, who knows Kirk. Kirk seems to care about him… but not enough to risk something while the doctor is tortured in front of his eyes. Also, Dr. Cory isn't present when Marta quotes the poems. The first time, Kirk and Spock are together, and the second time happens not long after this scene:

They try to make Kirk like the girl, but does he really care?

Nope, he just wants Spock back.

They are "brothers (somewhat figuratively)" who trust each other deeply, and even if their enemies try to distract Kirk, it's obvious what he really wants.

It's him and Spock. Spock and… him?

Hmm...

Okay, that's better. :D

At this point of the series, they're so close that Kirk doesn't even consider the possibility that Spock might not recognize him immediately.

Luckily, none of them dies and their feelings are mutual, so they can be happier than Housman. Maybe they'll read his poems together. Or Shakespeare, that's always an option.

[Pictures from s3 e14 - Whom Gods Destroy]

#spirk #k/s #kirk x spock #star trek tos #star trek the original series #spock #james t. kirk #tos spirk #william shakespeare #a e housman #I'm sorry I wrote so much #well no I'm not really sorry but thank you for reading until the end #my gifs

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the-shared-brain-in-retrograde · 3 years

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Knives Out

(Or What If…? Steve Rogers Wore Cable Knit)

A joint review...

Firstly, aren't you glad to have us back? We know you missed us, deep down, very deep down. So you're welcome.

Secondly the tag line for this What If?... was a bit of a debacle. Cass suddenly lost her mind about spoilers, so where as What if Steve Rogers did crime? would have made possibly more sense, she insisted we didn't reveal who the villain was on the poster. The cable knits though are honestly a very big part of the film for some of us, who lost their minds in other ways.

This takes us to our third point, which is that the notes made for this review varied wildly between the Shared Brain. Cass made proper film notes, and Becks thirsted. In Becks' defence, when discussing it after she was a bit more articulate about the storytelling, the sets and the all that film stuff. But those jumpers are really good.

Enough of the introduction and on to the film...

This film hits the ground running. We both commented on the excellent dramatic music, and the fact that the house is just dreamy. It’s like, yes the film has started, pay attention and come take it all in. Becks has just had an explosion of words and waving arms, declaring this film to be the most perfect film that has ever been made.

The introduction to all of the characters is just so clever. We go into the most perfect library for interrogation that has ever existed, which is also perfect as it is in this library that the most perfect interrogations occur. And the lies begin here as the audience is told story upon story, mixing and replaying shots as the Thrombeys' show us just what sort of family they are...awful.

As well as the suspects we are also introduced to the world's best detective team, a man who has had enough of all their shit, another man who is just so excited to be a part of it, and James Bond trying out a new accent. Jokes aside Daniel Craig in this film is excellent. It’s easy to forget what a great actor he is, when all you can bring to mind is James Bond. Cass has just told Becks that he revolutionised the role of Bond, but Becks won't hear a good world said about that franchise - so we are at an impasse.

Anyway, we love Benoit’s introduction. Becks’ notes said, ah James Bond being a tit in the background, whilst Cass lost her mind and started gushing about ‘the presence that man has!’

Needless to say the way the full story is introduced is brilliant. Such great storytelling. The way the same scene is edited and cut slightly differently each time, showing the audience the curated and untrustworthy points of view of each character. The switches and the camera angles telling us as much about the characters as the words they use to tell their own story. It’s just the peak of what good cinema should be. Perfectly encapsulated we think, in this bit of dialogue about Walt’s creep of a son:

Walt: He’s very politically active

Richard: The boy is literally a Nazi

Meg: Alt-right troll dipshit

Walt: Kids these days, the internet

It is also here that Becks begins demanding to see her favourite snuggly murder boy. Cass admits that her interest is peaked when he is introduced as the black sheep of the family, got to have a type, I suppose. The slight difference here is that one of us has kept a grip on their finances for once, and one of us has not.

Quick question, is the vomiting after lying a real life issue? Answers on a stamped address envelope please, because we posed the question and haven’t bothered to investigate further.

We love Marta and Harlen's relationship, the only two half sane people in that god forsake house. Marta is obviously a godsend, a proper caring friend to Harlen. Imagine caring about someone so much that you would protect them even in death? It’s the only bit of true warmth and love felt between two characters in this film, and really sets them apart from the rest of the assholes on the floors below.

Again we want to show appreciation to the house, a character in its own right. Full to the brim with beautiful tat, and secrets that we just adore. We want a secret trick window, long corridors, rooms full to bursting. We want a home that is just stuffed full of every little thing that makes up us.

Cass would also like to take a moment to sympathise with Linda. She too knows the struggles of people clomping about upstairs while she is trying to sleep, but unlike Linda she knows exactly who it is. 🙄

Also we really enjoy Toni Collette playing the shit out of Gwyneth Paltrow. 10/10

Also, is there anything more relatable than storming out in a fit of rage after being told to get a job? Poor Ransom. Becks has suggested she would be his sugar mummy, but Cass has helpfully pointed out Becks couldn’t be as she has no money to keep this man child in cars and knitwear. Spoil sport.

The film at its core is a traditional country house murder mystery, that has been brought shining into the twenty first century. We are still given the joy of watching the sleuths try and pick their way through clues and motives, but with the addition of Marta evading them just a moment before. We love them roaming the grounds, with her managing to cover her tracks just before they get there. Although there is ever the glimpse of bright blue eyes constantly watching in the background, as Benoit Blanc quietly takes in more than he lets on.

The dogs' barking signal the arrival of hotness.

The will reading scene is end to end fantastic. Biscoff, delicious biscoff. The audacity of the entire family to hide their own failings and to unite as one in a vicious little coup. The slap fight. Ransom's face. Eat shit, eat shit, eat shit, definitely eat shit. I'm not eating one iota of shit! The panic and disorientation the audience feels as Marta tries to leave the house, the noise the crowding. Fleeing into the open door of Ransom's Beemer. And finally the darkness creeping in as the family begin to plot. We love that Alan is so desperate to go home that he is happy to be called useless.

Becks would love nothing more than to jump into a sports car and then be menaced in a country pub. So rustic. Cass might be on board too, depending on who's driving the sporty number.

The pub scene shows us Ransom in his full glory. We get fed on cable knit, intelligence, menace, plotting, lying, sleeves over his long fingers caressing his fucking mouth. Cass wishes she could take the keyboard off Becks, taking it up to a third intervention of the week. [I don't think we're laughing about that yet, but at least we're not crying any more. The low blood sugar is making it impossible to pump out any more tears I think. What a fucking mess.] Trying to bring it back a little, it's just another really good bit of storytelling as both the characters and the audience is manipulated down another web of lies.

Another bit of sinister action that we enjoyed is Walt Thrombey visiting Marta's house. The sinister thump of the cane as it impacts the ground, moving ever closer, demanding to overpower the woman in front of him. And we love how she turns it around on him, changes the dynamic so perfectly, leaving him small and bitter and alone.

Then we are treated most wonderfully to the car chase. What a time, it was both ridiculous and thrilling. Ransom calling Marta 'baby driver' nearly had Becks done for but she kept it together, out of professionalism and that... Oh we do love a good car chase, it’s fun and it builds the tension perfectly.

Now, does it seem a sensible thing to blackmail a murderer? We would say no, and are also proven correct. The repeated scene of Fran in the abandoned dry cleaners is great. The first time we see it with Marta and the body it's creepy, dark and so unsettling. The second time with Ransom, the power shifts and we feel it as he takes her life and light out of the room, just to get hold of that report.

It also gives us the little treat of Blanc happily singing to himself in the car. What a fucking delight this man is.

It then leads us on to the finale, the big reveal, better than anything Poirot has ever done. Never has Agatha Christy treated us to lines such as, 'What were the words overheard by the Nazi child masturbating in the bathroom?'.

Not to be a broken record, but honestly the whole ending was just perfect. B Blanc finally telling the tale how it truthfully happened, joining all of the little dots and crumbs we had been fed throughout the film, finally filling the donut hole. The whole donut analogy makes Cass feel hysterical, wave upon wave of joy and shrieks that’s she tries to hold in as it goes on and on. She has likened it to Becks' reaction to Ransom, but we have discussed the subtle differences in that.

The ending also gives Ransom his perfect villain ending. That monologue. We shouldn't use the word perfect anymore in this cursed review but that's what it is, and Becks will fight anyone who says differently.

RANSOM: I want to say this just to you, not to a courtroom of cameras, just to you because you know it's the truth: we allowed you into our home. We allowed you to take care of granddad, to be part of our family and now you think you can steal it from us? You think I'm not going to fight for our birthright, our home, our ancestral family home?

BLANC: *laughing hard* Harlan bought this house in the eighties. From a Pakistani real estate baron.

RANSOM: Oh shut up Blanc, shut up! Shut up with that Kentucky fried fog horn rag-horn drawl. Yeah I killed Fran but I guess I didn't, so what do you have on me. Nothing. What, attempted murder? I get arson for the building, maybe a few other charges, with a good lawyer, which I have, I'll be out in no time. And then you'll see just how much hell I can wreak on your life, you vicious little bitch.

And then he takes the vomit like a real champ. Marta goes off like that little frilly dinosaur in Jurassic Park, and we love to see it.

We then get what our old film-tutors oft referred to as a trippy Jaws shot, and then so much slo-mo drama with that incredible chair in the background. It just looks amazing, as we follow everyone's terrified faces as the knife cuts through the air and down into Marta's chest. And then bounces a few times.

We should also discuss how Becks' notes just end with the line, 'I wish he'd stab me.'

@becksxoxo: I stand by it. He's so angry, with his face, and then he flies through the air and is just there, on her, plunging the blade in, and then back out, and in again, and out and...

@cassandrafey: Oh for god's sake. Do you think you're clever?

@becksxoxo: Alright Cass, no need to be such a vicious little bitch about it.

In conclusion, crime bad, but if done in a nice sweater, crime good.

We've had a lovely time. It’s such a comfort movie (weird considering it’s very murder based but we won't delve any deeper into that, we’re weird women, fuck you), something so brilliantly written, designed and acted, and just a joy to watch.

Bet you’re excited to see what our next convoluted What If…? tagline will be next week ey folks? Stay tuned for more shared brain action!

Love Becks and Cass xoxo

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wiypt-writes · 4 years

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Murder, He Wrote

Part 1

Co-written with @southerngracela

Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween… When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.

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

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

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

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.

There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.

The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.

It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.

And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.

Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.

It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.

Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.

It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.

As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.

Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.

You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up. You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.

To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news, In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud, So make sure that you read your answers out loud. As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise. Which may or may not be a scary surprise…

Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but, not enough to prevent cold

You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.

A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

“Oh come on…” you muttered, “That’ ones obvious. Knife, the answer is knife…” You picked up your phone and shone it around the various surfaces of the kitchen and your eyes honed in on a wooden knife block containing a solitary knife. You crossed the room towards it and as you closed in on it, you noticed that the handle of the knife was an ornate silver filigree. It was no ordinary kitchen knife and as you pulled it form the block you realised it was in fact a dagger, antique by the looks of things. The blade was curved slightly, reaching a sharp point, the silver tarnished. But the more you looked at it, the more you suddenly became horribly aware that it wasn’t merely a dullness of colour at all. It was blood.

“Dramatic…” you mumbled, and with a sigh you then realised there was no clue attached to it. Was this a distraction? A decoy? You were just about to stat ransacking drawers to find the actual knife you needed, when you glanced back at the block the dagger had been held in and noticed a flash of white peeking from underneath. Picking it up and moving it aside you smiled as you saw the same cursive writing, spelling out the word three. Seeing as you might as well play along, you used the dagger to slit the envelope open, tossing it back down on the counter as you read the next clue.

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

You fell silent, your mind racing to how the hell you were going to find a piano in this decrepit and yet enormous house. Then, your ears heard it. The subtle note from deep inside the house. It was a single key. But now that wasn't your concern, no, it wasn't the mice or the bugs or even the brown water. Your heart raced at the notion that someone was in fact in the house with you.

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room.

The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

“Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat.

“Window. It’s a window.”

Usually, at that point, something happened to point your attention to the place you should be looking but this time, there was nothing. Instinctively you looked out of the one on the wall by the piano, but as you stared at nothing but the darkness outside you realised that was too obvious. Just then your ears picked up a sound you couldn’t quite figure out, but it was familiar all the same. And then it came to you, it was the familiar click and clack of a skateboard, the wheels gliding over the brittle old floor and you span round in the direction it was coming from to see a window you hadn’t noticed before, this one was an ornate, stained glass window which bore some kind of flower design that faced directly out into the hall.

He passed by slower than a flash but just enough to allow you to catch only a glimpse. You audibly gasped, your breath coming in a sharp intake of fright, because until then you had been alone on this chase. But it appeared you dramatic host had finally come out to play. He was merely a shadow, bulky in frame, tall and dressed all in black as he moved past but it was enough to puzzle you. You didn’t remember Lucas being that broad, or tall. With a frown you ran into the hall to catch him but saw nothing, and heard nothing, the only thing to indicate he had been there was a faint smell of the cedar and amber of what you assumed to be cologne.

You paced quickly down the hall in the direction the figure had gone but as you passed the stairwell the light flickered on, instantly attracting your attention. You’d only briefly noticed the ornate staircase before, but with the lack of light you certainly hadn’t noticed the writing on the wall, dripping in fresh paint. Swallowing, as you mouth suddenly felt dry with fear you stepped onto the first stair, and as soon as you did you were plunged into almost complete black. Letting out a shriek as, once again, he’d managed to get the drop on you, you shook your head and reached for your phone, taking another few steps up so you were level with the next clue which you read aloud.

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize.” You bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination.

Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Alongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby.

You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

This room was a little lighter thanks to a lamp which stood on a nightstand. It wasn’t bright, by any means, but it was enough so that you could clearly see the bed in the middle of the room. And there, placed by the pillows was a thin box. On unsteady legs, you shuffled slowly towards the bed, the box before you making you quiver, your insides churning. A shaky hand tilted the lid open slowly, afraid something would pounce in a sneak attack. You shut your eyes ready to protect them in case a bat or bugs flew at you and when nothing happened, you opened them slowly and inspected the boxes contents. There was no envelope this time, just copy of a newspaper. Your newspaper. And you felt your blood run cold as you recognise the bold headline across the top. Murder, He Wrote: A twisted tale of Inheritance, Crime and Exoneration "Drysdale," you whispered in realization. But now, while you were well aware of what the article meant and who it was referring to, your brain shut down processing how on earth Lucas Lee and Ransom could possibly be connected. Your breathing deepened and you moved to pick up the article, but then the lid to the box caught your eye and you froze, for on the inside of the lid was another clue, only this one was a straight forward question which was spelled out using cut-out letters from the newspaper in question.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath. And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

When Y/N went limp in his arms, Ransom laid her across the bed only leaving the room to hurriedly cover his tracks, blowing out candles and removing any trace of her that had been in the house. His time as his grandfather's research assistant gave him far more experience than it should have. When he returned to the bedroom she was still out cold but light as a feather as he carried her downstairs and out the back door to the awaiting SUV, smug that his plan had gone so well.

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

He drove away from the scene of his new crime towards the city, driving through the dead of night, on the beltway, and continued twenty minutes outside downtown Boston before pulling into the garage of a large red cedar and quartzite home. He killed the engine and closed the garage door, pulling Y/N from the seat she was slumped in when it was clear to do so.

He couldn't be seen, he wouldn't be seen. He carried her inside the spacious home, his boots tapping heavily against the dark marble floor of the kitchen and finally the lush carpeted staircase that wound down into the basement.

This is where he laid her, in the basement, on a bed, but not just any bed, the one that would now become hers. He adjusted the lighting in the space, low enough not to disturb her, but bright enough to give the room a glow so he could finish what he'd set out to do. In the shock of the struggle in the bedroom, she’d dropped her phone and he’d made sure to smash it long before he left the haunted house, making sure there'd be no device to track her. He'd already disposed of her car while she was playing his little game, every loose end as far as he could see was tied up.

And now she was all his.

He brushed the hair away from Y/N’s face where it had fallen over her eyes. With gloved hands he manoeuvred her undone, black woollen coat off her body, leaving her in the bottle green turtle neck sweater dress and thick tights she was wearing before he tossed it over the chair in the corner of the room and then undid the zips on her brown suede knee high boots. He dropped them to the floor, kicking them towards the same corner with the equal carelessness he’d shown her coat. With a final meticulous movement he rearranged her on the bed, so he’d appear more comfortable and just before he left the room, he wrapped the cool, metallic cuff around the ankle. It locked in place with a clink and with a final glance at her still unconscious form, he turned and exited the room, the door latching shut and with the snap of the deadbolt he locked her in.

*****

Your head pounded, your nose burned and your mouth felt dry with the faintest taste of something foul lingering as you swallowed. The light was low but still your eyes ached. You tried to decipher exactly what the hell had happened to you while you got your bearings. You tried to sit up but your body felt heavy, the soft bed you now realized you were lying on was not your own. Your breathing rapidly increased as you started to move in fear but a clink caused a screech to escape your throat. You felt the weight of the cuff around your ankle and a full panic set it.

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

You remembered getting the email from the Haunted Mansion supposedly hosted by Lucas Lee. You had arrived and were sent on what you thought was a fun and exhilarating maze littered with clues and riddles and then you remembered the last piece of the puzzle. You gasped as you remembered how his breath felt hot on your skin and how his voice registered in your mind.

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

The door to your room, now coming into focus around you, flew open and there he stood, smug smirk, raging ocean blue eyes, hair neatly in place, dismantling frame clothed in a black sweater and dark denim, heavy footfalls sounding against the thick carpet under his feet.

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"I...I'm not, don't call me that," you spat defiantly as he moved closer, taking you in, his predatory eyes moving over your body. This was it, you were going to die all because some trust fund prick was a hurt baby about an article (that you forcibly apologized for) revealing the sick and sadistic truth about him, his family, money and the justice system.

"Are you gonna kill me?” You watched him carefully as he crossed the room towards you, trying to keep your voice calm so as not to betray the utter fear that was coursing through your veins at the fact you were trapped, fuck knows where, shackled to a bed with a murderer being your captor. “That's what this is about, right? My apology wasn't enough?"

"Your apology was forced bullshit.” He responded, his voice carried a hint of amusement, because of course, this was all a game to him. “You smeared my name, dragged my reputation though the mud and you expected an apology like that, half assed and full of more crap than your original hatchet piece, to be enough?" He was standing damn near over you now, a hand moving up your leg that was held by the cuff, your body frozen in a confused silent argument of fight or flight.

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

"No. I. Didn't." He lied and you had to hand it to him, a lesser person might have bought the garbage he was talking, because he was good at it. Lying must have been enough of a second nature for him that he actually believed everything he said himself. But then again, it wasn't actually a lie was it? Sure, he'd planned on indirectly killing Harlan and that plan had backfired and Harlan had actually slit his own throat. So at most he was indirectly responsible for his death, but none of that had stuck with the prosecution and so now here he was, a free man.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

"Try me, you son of a...." You didn't expect his lips to cover yours but they did. Unexpectedly warm and soft, despite the painfully harsh kiss. You managed to pull away but his hand still gripped at your throat and you felt the fear constricting your chest. But you were damned if you were going to show him a shred of weakness.

“You’re an asshole, Hugh…” It was all you had, the only thing you could use in your arsenal given your situation. You still had your voice. And you’d noticed that for whatever reason he appeared to hate that name.

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

“Or what? You'll kill me?” your voice rose in both volume and pitch as your desperation began to show. “We both know you're gonna do that once you've fulfilled whatever sick, twisted little fantasy this is. What are you waiting for, Hugh? Huh?”

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

You stayed stock still as large and surprisingly gentle hands trailed your curves up the outside of your thighs to your hips. As he reached the hem of your sweater dress he paused as you wrapped your hands around his wrists.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“This will be much easier if you just play-along, sweetheart” he muttered as he pressed his lips to your neck. You let go of his wrists and raised your hands, laying them over the wool of his cable knit, palms flat against the plain of muscle as you attempted to push him off.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand. His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.” He ground out, his lips inches from your ear as he nipped at your skin. He was impressively strong and balanced, his weight even through his body as he kept his knees between your legs, a hand against your breast and the other stroking your sides and up your thigh. All the while, his lips sucked at your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point as you turned your head away, tears filling your eyes

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

“I told you not to call me that.” He growled against your skin and pulled back, his eyes blazing as they locked on to yours. In sheer desperation, you managed to wrench a free hand from between you and gave him a slap, nails biting at his skin. Instantly you knew you’d pissed him off. His nostrils flared, his jaw set and as his eyes filled with fire and rage.

And you knew then, you were in for it.

“Bitch…” he snarled as he raised his left hand to his face where you had struck him, and then both his hands grabbed yours, yanking your arms up, pinning them above your head. You bucked upwards, violently in an attempt to shake him off, but it was futile. He was far too strong. His grip on your wrists grew tighter and despite yourself you let out a small whimper of fear.

In one hand he had the ability to cuff both of your wrists and he did so while his other grabbed at your dress, shoving it further up your body, fingers curling over the waist of your tights and panties, a handful of the material fisted in his palm. They wouldn't slide down quick enough and you felt your body lift away from the mattress slightly as he ripped away the material, the snap burning your skin. You fought, boy did you fight. You had no control of your hands or arms as he had them easily pinned, but your legs and the rest of your body gave as good as they could. You thrashed from side to side all the time screaming your objections. You drew your knees up to your chest in an attempt to buck him off. You screamed protests, threw every insult you had at him, but it was no use. He was simply too strong.

He didn't even bother with his belt or button, he just unzipped the flies on his jeans, pulled his solid cock free and slid in. You were wetter than you expected to be, but it still burned with friction and ached from the thick stretch against your tight walls. It hurt, definitely hurt.

"You know you want this. I know you want this." He rasped as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his face twisted in a look that was halfway between being smug and satisfied. Just looking at him made you feel sick but for some reason you were unable to look away as he continued his slow assault, before he picked up the pace slightly, his groans of satisfaction filling the room as he bottomed out, balls deep and it was at that point you closed your eyes and tried to block out what he was doing to you. But try as you might to remain mentally detached from the situation, your body was anything but. And the more he moved in and out of you, the more you could feel your physical reactions. You were powerless to stop them and the heat between your legs and in between your belly was spiking with each thrust into you.

It felt good. And you knew it shouldn’t. So you fought it, but eventually, you couldn't fight it anymore, not with the way his thick cock filled you, velvety smooth skin sliding in and out of your defiant core. You didn't want to cum, but your body told your brain it was going to and Ransom nearly puffed his chest as he fucked you into your body's submission.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you, Sweetheart? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

“Fuck, yeah…see…” Ransom’s hips began to move faster, and then with a sudden movement he pulled out of you, making you wince involuntarily at the sting. He shot his load all over your thighs, a growl bubbling from his throat, the warmth of his release trickling down your leg made you feel even more dirty than you already did.

“Not so fucking smart are we now, huh, miss Investigative Reporter…” his snap was snide, and childish, but you knew he couldn’t help himself. Your head remained defiantly in its position on the pillow, turned to the right, eyes focussed on a spot on the wall. “Look at me, bitch.”

When you didn’t do as he asked, he grabbed your chin bruisingly, making you wince as he pulled your face round so he could see you. You knew he would be able to see the tears on your face, and you hated that. Hated that he would see how much he’d hurt you, scared you even,

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

"That's all you got? You're a fucking child, Drysdale. It's why you’re doing this." You said, your voice trembling and croaking from the fear and exertion of what he had just put you through and you shook your head. “You’re a fucking man child with mommy and daddy issues. A spoilt, little whiney brat who can’t bear to be told no.”

That struck a nerve, you could tell, as his jaw clenched tight and his fists clenched around the sheets by your side to the point they were shaking. He grabbed your chin once more with his right hand and pinned your face still, forcing your eyes to look back at his

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

As you looked at him, you felt your anger starting to simmer. This fucking ass hole had just raped you, and he had the gall to be saying you were going to tell him that you were sorry. No chance in hell. You knew you were screwed, literally and figuratively. Whilst he had you captive behind a bolted door, shackled to a bed you had nowhere to go, he knew that you knew that too and you could see it in his face as a smug smirk flickered on his lips. Well fuck this, if you were going down it was with a fight. With a sudden movement, that caught him off guard you moved your head slightly as much as you could in his painful grip, and spat right in his face.

Ransom blinked, his anger morphing to shock, then back to fury once more as he released your face and with a flash of his hand he back handed you straight across the face. The blow to your right cheek snapped your head to the left, sucking the breath from your lungs and leaving you a little dazed.

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

***** Ransom stormed up the steps to the kitchen of the house, slamming the top door behind him and bolting that one shut too. He was furious that little bitch had scratched him and no doubt marked his face. He strode over the marble tiles of the room and walked into the large hallway and across into the den. He made his way straight to the bar, poured himself a healthy measure of good scotch, slopping a little on the dark wooden counter, before he glanced up at the large mirrored surface of the bar behind the shelves.

He could make out three vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end.

The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

**** Part 2

#murder he wrote #j's haunted house 2020 #dark ransom #dark ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale #reader insert #chris evans #chris evans characters

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losticaruss · 2 years

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man i just watched marta's season for literally the second time ever and i can't believe what 12 yr old icarus was missing out on!! she's such a great character

#i do wish they hadn't gone so strong on the 'she's jealous of rose' thing #but other than that #absolutely amazing #i'm now a martha stan #doctor who #tenth doctor #martha jones

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pagesoflauren · 4 years

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The Highest Bidder Ch. 3 (Ransom Drysdale x reader; sugar daddy!AU)

Summary: A graduate-level education is a costly pursuit. When you move out of state to study in Boston, expenses pile up, leading you to auction off what is apparently your most valuable asset: your virginity. It goes to the highest bidder…who happens to be Ransom Drysdale.

There are no major spoilers for Knives Out. Consider this as an alternate timeline. There will be references to the movie/its characters. This chapter contains some dynamics of the Thrombey family that are revealed in the movie, which--as someone who has seen the movies multiple times--I personally consider to be very minor spoilers. Please read at your own risk.

Warnings: loss of virginity, explicit sexual content/smut, angst, sugar daddy/baby arrangement, dark elements, dubcon, cliffhangers, minor spoilers for Knives Out, swearing, Ransom is an asshole (more to add and if you spot any that I’ve missed, please kindly let me know!)

A/N: Thanks for being super patient while I worked on this! This one’s mostly plot, so I promise the next one will be smutty 😏

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Ransom slams the door of his car as he sits in the driver’s seat.

His fucking family.

There was meant to be a “pleasant Sunday brunch-adjacent get-together” for the release party of Harlan’s newest book. His family is never pleasant no matter what day they gather, so Ransom should’ve known it would’ve turned into a shitshow.

Walt had been parading around boasting about how proud he was of “his and dad’s new book” to anyone outside of the family who would listen. Ransom’s father decided to pick a little fight with him, despite his mother’s urging not to.

“But they aren’t your books, are they Walt?” Richard taunted, “They’re Harlan’s books.”

Ransom had parked himself right at the refreshments table, nudging the platter of breakfast pastries closer to himself. He idly picked up a croissant and nibbled as he watched everything unfold. “Shit stirring prick,” Meg muttered as she grabbed a cup of coffee.

“This is all them, Meggy,” he said, his mouth full of soft, buttery croissant flakes. “I’m just getting a front row seat for the entertainment.”

Meg rolled her eyes and walked away. Walt had smiled simply before replying. “Of course, Richard. Just like how the real estate company is Linda’s, not yours.”

Linda then elbowed Richard, a hard signal to defend himself from her little brother’s jab like the “proud husband” he’s supposed to be.

“At least Linda was able to build something on her own.” Ransom rolled his eyes at that statement while his mother patted his father on the shoulder.

“Only because dad was generous enough to loan her a million dollars to build that company.”

Ransom dipped his croissant into his coffee and smirked as he chewed. When his father didn’t say anything, his mother blew her cap at both of them.

It started out relatively quiet before escalating into a full on spectacle. Across the room, Ransom saw Harlan exchange a look with Marta, his nurse, before completely ignoring the situation and returning to the conversation he was having with a guest.

“You can’t say shit, Richard, you’re getting nothing from his family!”

Ransom laughed loudly at the truth in that declaration. The three pairs of eyes turned and fingers pointed at him before insults were spewed his way.

Rolling his eyes, he let them at him, not caring what they were saying. It was all true. He was a little piece of shit, an entitled prick, he was all of it.

Because of them.

Leaving his half eaten croissant in his coffee cup, he placed it on the table and coolly sauntered across the room, slander following him all the way until it was directed back within the group.

Ransom had grabbed a copy of the book, given his granddad a nod of acknowledgement as a goodbye, then left. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the yelling all the way from the parking lot. Harlan looked a little disappointed as he left.

What did Harlan ever do for him anyway, besides give him a generous monthly allowance? What did his parents ever do for him? His mother spent her days running a real estate company while his father devoted his time to doing everything he could to get his hands on some of that money.

And where did Ransom fall in all of this?

Nobody actually cared about him. They shut him up with money and invited him to parties to make him feel like he was part of something. In reality, his family was nothing to be a part of. There wasn’t anything to them. Just a pile of mystery novels that turned words into money and fed it to hungry beasts. And Ransom was one of them.

That’s what he was, that’s what he was always meant to be. His mother never let him be a kid. When the grass was bright green after all the snow melted and Ransom rolled around, staining his crisp private school uniform with virescent splotches, she yelled at him. When she instructed her husband to continue the scolding, he gave a half-assed, “Don’t do it again.” The day was ruined after that.

And somehow, in the moment when he breathed in your perfume, he remembered one of the few moments where he was content: watching the world spin as the sky was down and the ground was up and the conifers looked like stalactites in a strange cave.

He loved remembering that. And it terrified him. The second he started remembering the brief golden moments of his childhood, he knew it was best to get himself off as soon as possible and take off. He’d hold on to memories of how you felt around his cock for when he couldn’t get between a girl’s legs.

He’ll never admit to anyone how often he thinks of you and the time he spent sharing a bed with you.

Shaking his head and starting the car, he pulled away from the party venue and drove through the city. At a stoplight, he picks up the hefty novel and flips it to the back cover.

He reads something about a statue and a dead art historian. Rolling his eyes, already disinterested, he throws the book back on the seat.

Passing through the university area, Ransom decides to grab a cup of coffee. He pulls into a parking spot, ignoring the blinking red light of the meter as he gets out to enter the cafe.

He does a double take when he sees you exiting with a man. You look completely different: your hair is in a messy ponytail and your makeup is more natural, focusing on accentuating your features instead of looking glamorous. You’re donning a sweater with the name of the university just across the street.

He’s rendered immobile at the sight of you. His thoughts come crashing down on him like an avalanche.

It’s been nearly two months since that night. He’s filled the days and weeks between now and then with various girls, all of whom were confident and sexy and unafraid to match his pace in bed. He could have any one of them at his doorstep with a snap of his fingers.

So why is he suddenly frozen, watching you and some guy walk down the street?

It was ridiculous, really, how much he had dreamt of your encounter, tried to recall your smell and the taste of your skin. He hates that he never got a sample from between your legs. He’d been so caught up in how you felt around his finger that it went straight to his cock and he just had to be inside you.

He’s never been so caught up on anyone before.

When he drinks whiskey, he sees you, turning in your dress and heels. He wonders if maybe he could see you again, maybe you’d be more confident, maybe more experienced…

Have you slept with anyone since July? Have you slept with the guy you’re with now?

His wonder causes him to mindlessly follow after you, sights set on the bright scrunchie that keeps your hair together as he imagines you underneath the guy you’re walking with, crying out as he thrusts into you…

Ransom doesn’t like the idea of that. He hates it, shakes his head to dispel it from his brain. Then he stops suddenly.

But what does it matter? You weren’t anyone to him, just some girl on a website who auctioned your virginity and he bought it. He didn’t buy you. You weren’t his to own.

He’d be lying if he said he felt he got his money’s worth though.

When he thinks about that night, besides all the erotic images of your face and how you felt wrapped so tightly around him, there was something underneath the heat and lust he felt. He saw curiosity come across your face multiple times that night and he felt the same.

He wanted to know what you’d look like on top. He wanted to know what you tasted like (he still hates himself for not taking the opportunity). He wanted to know what sounds you’d make when he went rough. He wanted to know how you sounded when you let yourself succumb to complete, unrestrained pleasure.

He knew you were holding back, he saw the terror that came across your face when you looked at his size. You barely even touched him. God, how would you touch him? How would your hands feel on him, running over his skin?

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, so many things he wanted to watch you do.

It terrified him to remember the brief blissful moments of his childhood while he was with you, and that’s why he left so quickly. But one night with you wasn’t enough.

The thought propels him forward, stepping after you again once he spies your scrunchie again.

You’re turning a corner; he needs to catch up. His pace quickens.

When has he ever chased a girl before?

As he rounds the corner, Ransom sees you stepping into a shop, appearing to playfully curtsey as the man holds the door open for you. He slows down a little, wanting it to appear as if he’s casually walking around. When he reaches the shop, he realizes it’s a used bookstore.

Maybe I can grab Harlan’s book and pretend I’m selling it.

He decides against it though. He doesn’t want to risk you getting away from him. He enters the shop and immediately goes for the taller shelves to conceal himself from plain view. Peeking between the tops of the books and the next shelf above it, he spots you. You’re near the back, looking at the large, brightly colored children’s books.

Shit, did he get you pregnant?!

Ransom shakes his head then smiles to himself; he remembers hearing you gasp when he rolled a condom onto himself. He feels his cock twitch at the memory.

“God, it’s so ridiculous that we have to buy our own books for clinicals,” he hears you gripe.

“Yeah, but it’s good practice for when we’re actually in the field,” the man nudges you with his elbow, “We’re gonna have to figure out which books will suit clients’ interest and all.”

“Yeah, I guess. I just wish I didn’t have to do this before work tonight.”

“Don’t you work at eight, though?”

Work? Why are you working when he gave you so much money?

“Yeah, but it’s less time preparing for seminar tomorrow. Not to mention the paper for fluency. Ugh, being a grad student is so hard, Toby,” you moan, leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

A hot puff of air shoots out from Ransom’s nose.

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. C’mon. It’s barely past one. We’re gonna get this done, then go back to my place and study a little. And remember why we’re doing this?” he asks, turning so his front is facing you. Your head sags for a moment, having leaned the weight of your skull on him before your neck straightens.

“To help kids become better communicators,” you say together, as if it’s a mantra.

“Exactly,” the man--Toby--smiles. “Besides, it’s Sunday. I’m pretty sure the diner won’t be super crowded like it was for me last night. If anything, it’s crowded with people trying to cure their hangovers right now. Then, when the diner’s empty, you can study. It’s just on the next block over, anyway. They know you’re a student, so I don’t think they’ll kick up a fuss if you crack open a notebook. It’s just you and the cook, too, right?”

You hum in affirmation as you pick up a book and tuck it under your arm.

“So, that just shows they know nobody’s gonna be there! You’re golden!”

You giggle as you swat his hand away when he makes to pinch you. Ransom leans forward into the bookcase in an attempt to get closer to you, enchanted by the sound.

What the hell has gotten into him?!

“Sir, can I help you find something?” a store associate startles him.

“What--no, no. Absolutely not,” Ransom spews, fumbling around with his hands trying to look inconspicuous. His leather jacket squeaks with his movements. The associate looks confused, tilting their head as they watch him.

“I’m just leaving,” he shakes his head, making his way to storm out the door.

He makes his way back to his car, taking note of the diner Toby was talking about. It really was on the next block over, hard to miss with a gaudy 50s-style neon green light-up sign and fluorescent pink lettering.

Ransom smiles to himself as he makes his way back to his car. He knows exactly what to do.

The lighting in the diner is harsh against Ransom’s eyes and he blinks a little as he gets out of his car. It’s just before midnight and the streets are empty, save for a few students who are walking into the coffeeshop and drugstores around the block. Stepping in, checkered black and light gray tiles lay on the floor, though he’s certain the gray tiles are supposed to be white. There’s a counter with a bunch of red cushioned stools and booths all around the wall.

“Evenin’ son,” the cook says as he peeks through the window on the wall beyond the counter. “You just take a seat right up here and our hostess will be right out.”

The man turns away and shouts your name.

Ransom smirks at the sound of your name, perching himself on a stool and immediately getting comfortable. The only thing that would make this better would be if the stools had backs so he could put his feet up. Instead, he rests his elbow on the counter and waits for you to come.

The kitchen door swings open.

“Sorry to keep you waiting--” your sentence stops short and he smiles deviously at you.

You’re in the same makeup and ponytail from earlier, though this time a pen is nestled where your hair is gathered, kept in place by the scrunchie you’ve been wearing. Instead of your university sweatshirt, you’re sporting a denim blue button up waitress dress, complete with a sewn on oval white patch with your name stitched into it. There’s a white apron tied around your waist.

His smirk deepens more. If anything, this is almost like the start to a bad porn film. One where he’d bend you over the counter and--

“Hi, Ransom,” you greet him, interrupting his almost fantasy.

“Hey,” he nods, so satisfied in your surprised expression.

You awkwardly place the menu in front of him and wring your hands a little.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee?”

Ransom hums, pink lips puckering before he answers, “Hot chocolate, actually.”

Your nod is a little perplexed. “Okay, right. I’ll go get that for you.”

You turn to the espresso machine behind you and Ransom likes the view of your ass he’s treated to as he opens the menu. Once he’s decided, he looks up, seeing your back still turned to him as you watch hot chocolate trickle into a mug. He knows it can’t be that interesting.

“Hey,” he calls, disrupting your focus.

You whirl around, ponytail whipping about with the movement of your head. “Huh?”

“I’m ready,” he says, holding up the menu.

“Oh,” you reach into the pocket of your apron and pull out a notepad before plucking the pen from your hair. “What’ll it be?”

He multitasks, reciting his order and watching you at the same time. You seem to be avoiding looking at him, even when you ask him to clarify what bread he wants for his toast. Your eyes briefly dart up from your notepad to his face when you repeat his order.

When he hums in affirmation that you got his order correct, your movements seem to buffer.

Got her, he thinks.

You rip the sheet from the pad and hand it to the cook.

“Man, Monte Cristo crepes? At this time of night?” the man whines.

Ransom gives an apathetic shrug.

“Well, alright then. You better tip our little miss here well so that she can split it with me.��

Ransom watches as you press your palm into your forehead, probably cringing at the idea of him tipping you after he paid you $50,000.

You turn back to the espresso machine and grab the mug, carefully carrying it to him.

“Whipped cream?” you offer, taking out the silver canister from the fridge underneath the counter.

“No,” he shakes his head, “I’d prefer having that in the bedroom.”

You seem to huff a laugh at that and you put the canister back where it belongs.

He takes a sip, then his face scrunches.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Is this imported?”

It appears you can’t help the bewildered smile that comes across your face. “Um, I don’t know where it’s from, but I don’t think it’s imported.”

“Oh.” He gives an experimental sip, holding the liquid in his mouth before he swallows.

“Is it okay?” you ask.

So you’re a people pleaser… or you’re just a waitress trying to make sure your customer’s satisfied.

“Yeah, it’s acceptable.”

“Oh, good,” you smile, relieved.

He only nods and turns his attention to the rest of the diner. It really is only the three of you there. Again, the idea of this situation being like a bad porno crosses Ransom’s mind.

When he looks at you again, you’re cleaning the coffee machine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Cleaning the coffee machine.”

“No, what are you doing here?”

You turn to look at him. “I’m working…?”

“Well, I can see that, but I gave you fifty grand.”

Your head whips to look over at the cook. Ransom’s eyes follow, seeing he’s occupied at the stove. He didn’t appear to hear anything. “Fifty grand’s not nothing. Did they not send you the payment?”

“You know, I could ask you what you’re doing here, too. I didn’t pin you as someone who lived in the university area,” you say, changing the subject.

“I don’t live around here.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Your eyes narrow. He can see you’re strategizing.

“If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?”

“Sure,” Ransom relaxes as much as he can, though he has to be honest, the stool doesn’t give him that much lounging real estate.

“They sent me the payment.”

“So, why are you working?”

“I go to school across the street. The money you gave me is enough to pay for the tuition costs not covered by financial aid. But I need to pay for books and rent and groceries. And it’ll be four more semesters until I finish my degree, so I’ll need a little more than what you gave me to keep my head above water.”

So that’s why you thanked him. He helped pay for your education.

He nods, sipping his chocolate. As a plot forms in his head, he has to admit, for some cheap, unimported trash, it’s growing on him. Said plot would involve him getting what he wants from you and you no longer needing to work in this dump. He goes to open his mouth and you turn with a smile of your own.

“You said if I answer your questions, then you’d answer mine.”

“And if I don’t answer your question?” he challenges.

You smile. “Then this conversation is over.”

You raise your eyebrows expectantly at him and he shakes his head, giving a half-shrug.

“Just here to grab some Monte Cristo crepes and kill a craving,” he lies. Maybe the craving part is true, though.

You hum in acknowledgement, though he’s not sure you fully accept his answer. Taking the towels you used to clean the coffee machine, you disappear into the back. When you return, you’re holding a notebook.

“How long have you been working here?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just trying to make conversation,” he feigns innocence.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does that.”

Ah, so suddenly you have the ability to get a read on people? What other things does he not know about you? Your encounter at the hotel made him think you were some naive young woman who was sheltered all her life. In the fifteen minutes he’s been here, you’re showing him you’re anything but.

What else is there to discover about you? he wonders.

“I’m just asking because I might be able to help you. Financially.”

“Ransom, I have nothing else left to offer,” you say.

So you think.

“And your payment was more than generous.”

The cook calls to you and places a plate on the kitchen window sill. You grab it and set Ransom’s order in front of him.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“Nothing...for now,” he remarks suggestively.

You nod once and open your notebook. As Ransom revels in the cheesy goodness of the crepes in front of him, he watches you quickly jot down things onto the paper and listens to you mutter to yourself.

As he scarfs down all the greasy morsels and chases each bite with hot chocolate, he considers badgering you more. But seeing how stressed you look, he decides to back off.

If you were his mother, on the other hand…

When he’s done, he snaps his fingers at you. You look unamused at the gesture but clear his plate anyway. You bring it back to the kitchen. He hears some chatter and the sink running before you return and stand at the register. He’s again treated to a view of your ass as you shift from one foot to another while processing the transaction.

“I’m taking fifteen,” the cook calls to you.

“Alright,” you shout back, tearing away his receipt and Ransom’s ready with a couple bills.

“Just keep the change,” he winks at you. “Well, maybe give some of it to your grumpy cook.”

He likes the way you laugh at his comment.

“Thanks,” you smile at him again. “See you...whenever, I guess.”

“Actually,” he begins, “about that help I can give you…”

You sigh. “I already told you, there’s nothing else I can offer you. You,” he watches as you pause and laugh humorlessly,” You paid for my virginity and you got it. Unless you have a kid who needs help with reading or writing, I don’t think--”

“I’m not paying you to tutor anyone.” Ransom bites the inside of his cheek as he smiles at himself.

Maybe you can help Walt with some comprehension issues.

“I was thinking...you and I can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“‘Arrangement’?” You lean against the counter with the espresso machine, arms folded across your chest as you face him.

“Yeah. You live with me, I cover whatever other living costs you need. And you,” he says, one corner of his mouth curls up wickedly as he leans his arms on the counter in an attempt to get closer to you, “You keep me entertained.”

The way your eyes widen slightly at the word “entertained” tells him you know exactly what he means.

“I don’t think so,” you scoff, shaking your head and walking to retrieve your notebook.

Well, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting.

“Excuse me?” he asks, appalled. His eyes follow your figure walking to the other side of the counter.

“I don’t think so,” you repeat plainly.

What even is this? He’s never been rejected by a woman before. They fell at his feet all the time. There were some that played hard to get, but they always came crawling to him in the end.

He has to admit, though, he does like this side of you.

“Why not?” he presses.

You look around as if to check if anyone’s around to hear you. “I didn’t even orgasm, Ransom,” you laugh. “I’d rather rough it and have a job here instead of entering an arrangement where I’m not going to get something out of it.”

“You’re getting something out of it,” Ransom says, standing up to follow you across the counter. “I told you, I’ll cover your living costs.”

“I mean something pleasurable, you doofus.”

You turn to go into the kitchen.

Normally, Ransom isn’t a man who begs. But he always gets what he wants. And hell, he wants you and all the memories you bring back to him. He wants to uncover you layer by layer until he reaches your very core and knows you inside and out.

God, what is this mushy stuff he’s thinking right now?

“Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, wait,” he says. “You didn’t…? And because of that you don’t wanna do this?”

“No.”

“Listen, I can make you cum,” he states firmly, index finger pressing into the countertop as if to make his point.

“You don’t need to get so worked up over this, Ransom,” he scowls when you laugh at him, “You’re a handsome guy. I’m sure there’s plenty of other girls who will gladly take you up on your offer.”

Somehow, you calling him handsome doesn’t stroke his ego. Rather, it feels insulting. This is you letting him down easy.

Fuck no.

“I don’t want the other girls.”

“Is that to suggest you want me?” you inquire.

“The arrangement isn’t going to benefit just me in bed,” he changes the subject.

“Oh, it wouldn’t?” you say, unimpressed again.

His smirk mirrors yours.

If it’s a game you want to play, game on.

“How about a deal?”

Your eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”

He rests his forearms on the counter this time. “I make you cum, you enter this arrangement with me. If not, you never have to see me again.”

He can see the gears turning in your head.

“Three,” you say.

“Sorry, what?” he shakes his head, confused.

“I wanna cum three times,” you tell him.

He chuckles to himself. He likes that you’re not afraid to say what you want. Besides, another night with you would mean he gets his $50,000 worth.

“Easy.”

“Well, then, Ransom, you got yourself a deal.” You offer your hand for him to shake.

Taking your hand, he yanks you towards him so you’re right up against the counter. He leans forward, your faces less than an inch apart. That glint of nervousness flashes in your eyes again and again, he chuckles.

“No. I got you.”

Permatag: @caffiend-queen @fckdeusername @lou-la-lou @bangtan-serendipity

Chris tag: @onetwo3000 @patzammit

Ransom tag: @jeremyrennermakesmesmile

Highest Bidder Taglist: @imanuglywombat @sapphirescrolls @just-another-wretched-egg @ladynightshade30 @angstsfordays @icanfeelastormbrewing @buckysteveloki-me @what-is-your-plan-today @iloganjade @twittytelly @xoxabs88xox @an-awkward-human-1 @fanfiction-trashpile @jtargaryen18 @donutloverxo @meaganottiz02 @princess-evans-addict @kianifan @asiaaisa77 @kelbabyblue @my-emotional-self @saiyanprincessswanie @random-things-i-love @captainchrisstan @daugtherofthenight117 @buchanansebba @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @andiebell2023 @avengerraven1023 @dahkness @thatonefangirl111 @sllooney @sheerfreesia007 @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @suzieqsez @farremoved @edge-ofparadise @bellaireland1981 @myoxisbroken @tinystudentfirepurse @opheliadawnwalker3 @starstruckghostmoneyduck @siggy85 @thatweirdwalangpake @captain-asthmatic @mery-be @isaxhorror @everythingisoverrated @imboredat2am @tsunderebae009 @arseofrivia @alexakeyloveloki @rayofdawnworld @heyarely16 @empower-bi-women @buckaro0 @readermia @bubbaduck33 @ssworldofsw @woah-kanda @itgetsdarksometimes35 @pinkshenanigan @sweetwaterprincess

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years

Text

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1

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

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist.

"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”

"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.

With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.

I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. I also give heat but not enough to prevent cold

“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”

Turning back round, you then spotted that the door at the end of the hall was open, and you could clearly make out a Jack-o-Lantern looking at you, the candle inside flickering. Its face was creepy, really creepy. The nose and eyes were harsh triangles and the grotesque, twisted smile it sported was constructed of sharp, jagged teeth. You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. You may have had no service, but the flashlight was working. Keeping the light held in front of you so you could watch your step on the cracked tiles of the hall, you made your way towards the lantern and found yourself in a large, run down kitchen. The lantern and your flash-light provided the only light in the room as the windows were all overshadowed by gnarly trees, their branches every so often scratching the glass as they swayed slightly in the wind outside. The only other sound to be heard was the drip, drip of the faucet in the porcelain Belfast sink. A closer look revealed the discoloration of the water, a brownish concoction as it swirled down the plug. There was an envelope on the side of the counter by the lantern and as you crossed towards it, a movement in your peripheral made you spin round only to see a lone mouse scuttling away across the dirty wooden floor. You placed your phone down, flash-light up causing it to light up an area of the Artex plaster ceiling, and picked up the envelope, tearing it open to find your next clue

Mr Jack-o-Lantern lights the night His eerie face is shining bright The ????? that shaped him lies around And holds your next clue safe and sound

Many a Child on me they may play Any time be it night or day. My surface is hard, on it you can knock I have many keys, but can’t open a single lock…

“What has keys but doesn't open a lock?" You pondered aloud. Adjusting your cross-body strap, you sigh. Then the answer came to you, "a piano."

"Alright, Lee, you were always one for a flare of the dramatics, let's see what you've got."

Step by step you followed the note that chimed every few steps and you found yourself beginning to wonder if it was a recording or if someone were really playing it, timing their play with the sound of your boots over the rotting floor. You wound your way through the narrow hall, ancient wall paper peeling from its tack, mastick and plaster falling away to reveal studs in places. Finally, to your left you heard the key loud and clear. It was in that room. Steeling yourself for a possible encounter, you carefully pushed the sliding door away from its hinge. Your booted feet traipsed across the brittle carpet, dust swirling in the air in front of your face. Cobwebs adorned many of the surfaces and there were dirty white sheets covering the various pieces of furniture in the room. Apart from, that is, the large ornate grand piano that sat in the middle of the room. The stool in front of it suddenly jolted back and tilted toward you, making you scream at the gracious invitation by an as of yet invisible host.

“Get a grip Y/N” you mumbled to yourself. You were surprised to find just how much this place was starting to set your nerves on edge. You took a deep breath, the pounding of blood in your ears began to quiet and you took a look around the room. There was no one in there with you, you were alone. With slow, deliberate steps you moved towards the piano, your eyes sweeping over the mahogany surface, searching for an envelope with the next clue, but there was none to be found. The surface of the piano was thick with dust and grime, but as you scanned over it you suddenly stopped. On one of the white keys the dust was disturbed, as if it had been wiped away and you instantly realised that had to be the key that your so far elusive host must have been playing. You paused, biting at the nail on your thumb of you right hand, before you reached out with your left and tapped the key. The melodic note rang around the room, clearly, echoing in the silence and for some reason you were taken back to a part of the article you had been thinking about earlier that day, and how Detective Blanc had told you that he had ‘played a key’ during the various family interviews ‘to make my point without interruption’. It didn’t pass you by how fitting that actually was at that moment but you didn’t have much time to reflect on it, as you heard a creak and a grinding noise and you spun to your left to see a panel in the wall sliding open. It made you jump slightly, but this time you didn’t scream.

Not for the first time, you had to admire the effort Lucas was going to here. It was clear he had a flare for the dramatic, anyone could see that from his films and interviews but this was pretty damned good. It was making you wonder how he was doing it. Was he somewhere watching, pressing buttons to enact the various parts of his show? Instinctively you glanced up, looking for a camera or something you were being monitored by but you found no evidence of anything. “Well, in for a penny…” you muttered, crossing towards the small hatch. It was just wide enough for you to get your hand into, but you really didn’t want to. You grabbed your torch and shone it into the hole, finding nothing but the envelope so deciding it was safe you reached in and pulled it out.

Sometimes coloured, sometimes plain sometimes frosted, sometimes stain Be you short or thin, or fat or tall, this simple invention, lets you look right through a wall

You pondered for a moment, before the answer came to you. Fairly quickly you might add. Feeling a little smug you smiled and cleared your throat “Window. It’s a window.”

“Tonight is not all fright and fear, a trick or treat is waiting near, the bedroom holds a sweet surprise, there solve the clue to claim your prize” you bit your lip and looked up at the top of the stairs, wondering when someone was going to jump out at you. Taking a deep breath, you made your way up, cringing at each creak your feet caused on the old warped wood, but it didn’t sway your determination to make it to your destination. Halfway up, a shadow flickered at the corner of your vision at the top on the landing and you froze, your mouth going dry once more. As you stood there, shining your light into the dark you caught the same scent from moments ago lingering in the air only this time it was stronger, far more powerful and you were able to denote even more of the notes within. Aalongside the amber and cedar your heightened senses picked up deep, earthy, sandalwood notes with a hint of citrus in the background. And it was familiar for reasons beyond the fact you’d smelt it down stairs. But, as you’d surmised earlier, it was a cologne. Probably one worn by a few people you knew.

Yes that was it.

“Jesus Christ Y/N what has gotten into you?” You rolled your eyes and continued up the stairs, clearly your ‘Celebrity Host’ was once more nearby. You cautiously got to the top of the stairs and glanced around. Nothing. So turning to your left you entered the first room you found on the hall. It was empty bar a creepy looking doll that had been separated from its head which lay about a foot to the right. As you looked around the room, the wind intensified outside, the rustling of the leaves and branches became louder, as did the creaking of the house…and then you gulped, as you realised it wasn’t just the house that was creaking. In the corner of the room, the little chair had begun to rock, slowly. Blowing out a breath and shaking your head, you looked around at the thin strips of wallpaper which showed little trucks. Crayon markings scrambled upon the wall where wallpaper used to stick but other than that there was nothing in there bar some pretty good theatrics. You had to hand it to Lee, the creepy feel was fantastic and you were going to give him one hell of a write up for this. You took a while longer to take in the detail, smiling to yourself before you closed the door and headed to the one over the hallway.

I’m light as a feather, yet the strongest person can’t hold me for five minutes. What am I?

You froze, for the answer was simple. Breath.

And that was it, you needed to get out. You started to back away from the bed, but before you had so much as made it 3 steps you collided with something hard. A forceful arm across your front pinned you to a firm and broad chest that engulfed your frame while a cloth with a distinct smell and cool moisture covered your airways.

"Surprise" The voice in your ear, calm, deep and known, was all you heard before nothing consumed you.

*****

But then, didn’t everything for him? He was Ransom Drysdale, and he was fucking untouchable.

And now she was all his.

*****

Your night flashed quickly through your glutamate and adrenaline flooded brain

"Drysdale," you repeated the last word you had spoken in a shaky, frightful voice. "No."

Rage and fear collided in your chest as you screamed out the only thing you could think of, "HELP!" A strangled sound left your chest followed by another cry out for help, "Please, someone, HELP!"

"Nice to see someone's awake," Ransom deadpanned.

You stared for a brief moment and screamed for help again, louder, and louder, and louder until you felt your voice crack and strain, your cords burning as the sound shattered away.

"Are you done?" He cocked his head to the side and folded his arms across his chest as he stood firm and tall in front of the bed.

"What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?" It hurt to speak but you had to ask.

“Because I want you here, Sweetheart.”

"You... Killed... Him." You grit out through clenched teeth, and his hand was on your throat before you finished your breath, squeezing just enough to make a point.

A struggled chuckle came from your tightened throat, "Jesus Christ, you actually believe your own bull shit don't you?"

"You've got a fucking mouth on you," he breathed as his body loomed ominously over the bed and your frame, tiny in comparison to his.

You swallowed, feeling the hard lump strain to pass his grip, "Not really, you just don't like hearing the truth."

His eyes bored into yours and you struggled for breath as his hand constricted around your neck whilst he squeezed a little harder "Oh shut up Y/N."

"Or what, Hugh?" You croaked.

A little flash of anger tore through his ocean blue eyes like lightning in a storm. His eyes bored into yours as you fought to swallow.

"Or I'll shut you up myself."

“Don’t... fucking call me that!” his voice rose to a loud, angry instruction, apoplectic rage seeping from him to you, and it was almost stifling.

Ransom scoffed, "Kill you, no, see I'm gonna teach you a lesson. One about how money and status get you anything you want.”

You frowned, as you looked into his icy blue eyes, utterly confused “Anything you want? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You'll see Princess” was the sole explanation you got as he knelt between your legs.

"Don't" you squeezed, attempting to stop his wrists and close your legs.

“I said no.” you tried to keep your voice stern, despite the fact you were fighting back the fear and sadness at the realization of his task was now at hand.

His large hands smoothed over your dress, cupping your breasts and he let out a moan as you bit back the bile in your throat that was threatening to spill from your mouth. You pushed harder trying to force him off of you but it was of no use, his broad frame caged you in, engulfing you under him.

"Please, stop," you managed. "Hugh, stop!"

And you knew then, you were in for it.

"You're gonna fucking cum, aren't you Princess? I can feel it," he ground out, chasing his own release. You remained silent, breathing heavily as your insides coiled and tightened. "Fucking tight ass pussy," he gritted. You refused to cry out, not wanting to give him anything you were able not to, and it took everything you had to remain silent. In desperation, to quell the cry that was rising from your throat, you bit your tongue, tasting the coppery taste of blood in your mouth as you came hard around his cock.

His hand let go of your face and you stared at him, swallowing, trying to gather your voice in your painfully dry throat.

“You'll be begging me to accept your apology.” He snarled, his face contorted in rage “You'll see who the whiney child is soon enough. I promise Princess, it's not me”

“Fuck you.” He sneered as he rose to his feet, wiping his face. Silently he rearranged his pants, tucking his now soft cock back inside them, and swept from the room, locking the door behind him.

He could make out 3 vivid red lines down his left cheek where she’d dug her nails into his flesh and his jaw clenched. His hair was out of place, his cheeks flushed and his normally cold eyes were blazing with anger. But as he stood there staring at his dishevelled reflection, he knew it wasn’t the fact she’d scratched or spat at him that was pissing him off so much. It was the fact she had persistently voiced a name he despised, one that was used to control those lower than him in his every-day life. One reserved for The Help, for outsiders. It reminded him of his family, of his mother and father, the two people in his life who should have loved him unconditionally but instead had him out of ‘duty’ and had taken every opportunity to pass him off into the care of others they could. It reminded him of Walt persistently telling him he was a no-one, that he would amount to nothing over than a trust-fund baby.

It reminded him of Harlan. The one person in that entire fucked up patriarchy that had shown him an ounce of care. But who had screwed him over in the end. The anger that had been simmering inside him boiled over, the blood pumped into his ear and with an angry yell and an almost involuntary action Ransom hurled the glass tumbler straight at the wall where it smashed against the tasteful silver and white wallpaper, the 25 year old single malt trickling down the wall…just like the tears and trickled down Y/N’s cheeks as he’d forced her to look at him whilst he took what was his.

As she’d glared up at him he’d noticed a fierceness in her eyes that he was surprised to find had unnerved him a little, because she clearly wasn’t going to be as easy to break as he thought.

“Fuck it.” He mumbled to himself, grabbing the bottle from the bar before he turned and left the room, taking a large swig as he went, the burn in his throat going someway to settling his nerves.

This would work out, because he was Ransom fucking Drysdale, a man who always got what he wanted in the end, and she was going to be no exception.

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