#but this stage is a fucking online recorded interview

[bottom-lexa]

i hate you prerecorded job interviews i hate you ai assisted job screening i hate you ai i have you job hunting i hate you not giving me the chance to talk to a real human being

[tyforthevnm]

Interview with Livewire Online - My Chemical Romance

Posted November 12, 2003

KM, CC, JS Another thing to add to my "What Punk Isn't" List: being an asshole.

I got into punk rock because I wasn't accepted anywhere else and it was a place where everyone was accepted for who they were and what they wanted to be and to go there and make that a scene thats scary for kids to come to, being elitists about that, just defeats the whole purpose. So don't be an asshole.

LW: This is your 3rd night on the tour? Gerard: Uhh.....4th LW: Ah, ok, so how's it been so far? All: Awesome Ray: It's been cool cause Philly hasn't always been the best but... Frank: Yeah, we've always sucked it up in Philly. Gerard: Yeah, kids aren't too keen on us here but... LW: The first night on this tour was a full house at the 9:30 in DC. How does that compare to he smaller club tour with Piebald? Gerard: Piebald tour was really awesome cause...it wasn't necessarily a full house every night but the nights that it was and the nights that the kids were really good and responsive were almost magical, you know? Frank: It was cool cause there were smaller venues too, so it was more intimate. Ray: There were shows that had 70 people tops, like St. Louis. Mikey: Yeah, that one night there were like 30. Ray: Yeah and still every show was just fun. Less people, but definitely cool. LW: How have people reacted to you guys on this tour so far? Matt: Really good. Gerard: They wanna dance and have fun, you know? Mikey: Yeah, we dig the crowds that wanna have fun. LW: How do you respond to negative criticism? Frank: Bring it! Matt: We actually like it. Gerard: Yeah, especially hecklers, we like hecklers. It gives us more to do... Frank: But if you heckle a band, right? And the band is like, "Ok, why don't you come up and say that?", don't say it when they turn their back. Don't not say anything while they're facing you. That really sucks and you're a pussy. But if you're gonna heckle somebody, heckle them as hard as you would if they fucking talked to you. Ray: Yeah, if you say somethin and we're like, "Come up here and get killed", and you don't do that, like... LW: So Ray, your 80's Session guitar, how reliable is it on the road? Ray: I think in...Charlotte...it fell off the stage and busted in half basically. It probably can be fixed but I haven't gotten around to it. I've been playing Frank's, no, Mikey's SG and I actually like it better. It's a lot lighter but I do miss my Session guitar. LW: Do you guys like to experiment with vintage equipment in the studio that you wouldn't otherwise use on tour? Matt: We haven't had the chance. Gerard: Yeah, we can't afford it. Matt: On the record we did play with one vintage bass but that's about it. Frank: If you wanna, like, let us borrow one for recording feel free to do that. LW: You guys list a lot of 80's bands as influences, what are you into now? Gerard: The same bands. LW: I mean, like recent bands. Matt: Recover, Alkaline Trio Mikey: I like the new Doves a lot, the new Zwan record... Frank: Glassjaw LW: You kinda look like Billy Corgan. Gerard: Actually the very first time we played the Electric Factory, we got a review in Revolver that said I looked like the creepy son of Billy Corgan or something like that. It was a good review though. Mikey: Yeah, you look like how Jakob Dylan looks like his dad, you look like that with Billy Corgan. LW: Jakob Dylan is hotter than his dad so that's sort of a compliment. Mikey: Yeah, it is. Matt: He kept his hair. Frank: Have you seen Bob Dylan lately? They need to whell him out, he's dead. I think he's dead and no one's saying anything. LW: What do you think about your local scene? Gerard: Can't wait to go back to it. Frank: Ahh, Jersey. LW: Where in Jersey are you from? Frank: Newark. LW: Oh, ok. I'm from Cherry Hill. Frank: Oh really? Listen to Bombshelter Productions.They're really good. Gerard: Yeah, we're doing a hall show with Bombshelter... Ray: February 28. Gerard: Yeah, February 28. Frank: Big Wig... Mikey: We're gonna try to do those as many times as possible. LW: Yeah, its fun to see a local band come back and play a show. Gerard: It sucks cause because, it's like we, fuckin like almost wasted away too early in really big shows and we didn't play enough of the halls. Like, I can count on 2 hands probably, the number of halls we played. It sucks. And basements. Our best shows have been at colleges, halls, and basements. We've had a couple great shows on big stages, you know, but that barricade, thats fuckin shit. The fact that we're all 10 feet above... Frank: I dunno how you got through that monitor, dude. I thought I was gonna bust my ass. Ray: Well, I scoped it out before... Gerard: I tested it out before too, but, I was still like, "Fuck this!" Frank: DC was fine, like, it wasn't that far but I still didn't like the barricade. LW: The TLA down on South Street is better. Frank: I wanna play there! Ray: Do they still have barricades up like that? LW: They still have barricades but the stage is lower so you can see everything a lot better. LW: How did you guys get hooked up with Eyeball? Gerard: I had known Alex for years and he made a big policy not to sign friends' bands, and we were friends for years so I didn't think he would sign us but he saw us at like our 3rd show and he was like, "Dude, why don't you just come be part of the family? We can make it work". And we did. And it's pretty cool. LW: This lineup's been together since 2002? Gerard: Yeah, Frankie hopped on right before we recorded the record. Frank: I was in a band that was on Eyeball before. Matt: Yeah, so we used to play together. Gerard: They helped start us. LW: How important are sales stats to you? Do you get any pressure from your label? Frank: Pshhh... Gerard: That's one of the best parts about being on Eyeball: they don't give a shit. We always try to be successful and we want the music out there, that's the most important thing. Like, sound scanning doesn't mean shit to us, anything like stats doesn't mean anything to us. When we get to a venue or a city and we show up and we get on stage and we see all these kids sing along, that's how we know. Ray: Its not like a piece of paper that says 39 or 10 or whatever, it's the kids. Matt: They can all go get if off the internet anyway so why even care, you know? LW: I was going to ask that next. What about the availability of your music on the internet? Frank: Get it however you can! Gerard: I feel that like bands that are really small at the indie level, and labels that are at that level that are struggling, you should support them. Download it, if you like it, go buy it. Ray: Anything though, go to a show and buy some merch. Frank: We'd rather you come see us live. Mikey: I love the artwork, like album covers and the linear notes, like how can you get a stack of cds that say like... Gerard: Sharpieee Frank: I'm such a collector of music that I need the cover art, so I mean, like, go steal it... LW: What are your plans for the next release? Do you have any ideas production or material-wise? Frank: The first song we played... Gerard: The first track that we opened with is pretty much going to be the track that summarizes the whole record. It's a concept about revenge. We're taking March off just to write. We're not going into the studio anytime soon but we have all this music in us from the last 6 months and we wanna get it down so maybe we'll start playin some of this newer stuff out live. We wanna support this record. LW: Are you looking forward to Skate & Surf? All: Yeah! Frank: Oh yeah. Andrew WK! We met him last night. Ray: That was awesome. Frank: He wore tight green sweatpants and flannel and, uh, a big hat. I love that guy. LW: Do you have any other big festivals planned? What else are you doing this year? Gerard: Europe. Reading Festival. Mikey: The one that, like, Oasis always plays. LW: What goals have you accomplished this year? Gerard: Everything we wanted to and more. Frank: We've been so lucky it's not even funny. Gerard: It was me and Mikey's personal goal to play in Irving Plaza. We did that last night...and the night before. Every single goal. To have a record out, we did it, play in front of as many people as possible... Matt: Play Warped Tour Gerard: I think Warped Tour is the only thing left that we all sat around and said, "Hey, we wanna do this." Frank: So as soon as that happens, we're done! Matt: We can just stop. LW: So that's the only major thing left? All: No... Gerard: I dunno what we're striving for. I personally...we're striving to get it out to as many people as possible. Have that energy that we're putting out spit back at us. And to create really great moments when we play instead of us just, "Hey, we're a band you've never heard of, come check us out". I wanna get past that. That's my personal goal. LW: Have you faced any big challenges so far? Gerard: Getting used to touring. I mean that's the hardest thing any band has to do and once they get over that hump and get used to it they can really do whatever they want. I mean, a touring band is the kind of band that reaches people. MP3's don't reach people, getting out there reaches people. LW: As a band, how have you changed since the beginning? Gerard: A lot! Matt: We got Frankie! Frank: I got skinnier, we don't eat on tour. Gerard: [pointing at Ray] He's got an afro now! We got way more violent on stage. We're not trying to bring a violent message...it's not so much violence as a release of positive and negative energy. That causes accidents sometimes. LW: Where do you see yourselves heading in the future? Frank: Creating an MCR universe... Ray: A little MCR world. Gerard: I dunno, doin what we're doin now, touring. Frank: Reaching as many kids as possible and just... Matt: It's hard to tell cause we were just seein this in the near future, and it's hard to even think what's after this. Gerard: Yeah, I dunno what's after this. Frank: You don't know how lucky we've been. We've been together for a year. It's so silly, it's fuckin silly. We're really appreciative. I'm still collecting applications for Burger King... LW: If you had to write a State-of-the-Union-address-style speech about popular music, what would your main points be? Ray: Oh boy. Do it Frankie. Matt: Kill it! Mikey: I mean, there's nothin wrong with pop music. It's all the songs that everyone listens to when nobody's around, you know? Everybody loves that shit, so if you say you don't like it, you're fuckin lying. Everyone loves the new Justin Timberlake song and if you don't you're probably lying. Frank: I'm sick and fucking tired of people not writing their own goddam songs and getting on the radio and pretending like they're...like they know what's up. And, like, I'm tired of all that. I'm tired of bands that totally suck and kids buyin their t-shirts and being like, "Oh, this is what punk is" or "This is what hardcore is". And all these people don't know or care what it's all about or anything like that and I'm really psyched for real music and honest music to come out. Like Thursday. Bands like The Ghost, Sleep Station, Midtown, AFI. Bands that mean it, that have been there, that kids don't even know about and all these bands like Good Charlotte and Sum 41 and all these fuckin shit pop bands out there are influenced by these bands and rip them off. Matt: Or their writers rip them off. Frank: And no one fucking cares. I dunno, I'm really waiting for all this shit to be destroyed and that's one of my goals too. To get up there and if I get 10 kids to not buy Sum 41 cds and actually get into real music, like buy a Refused cd, please. If I can do that, then I'll feel like I've done something. And that's the way I feel about that! LW: Feel better? Frank: Little bit. Yeah. LW: Is there anything else we didn't touch on that you wanna share? Frank: Yes! Support indie scenes, support your local scene, support local bands! Put on a show. Do something. Write a letter to your fuckin asshole president who is bombing innocent people for no reason. Just make a difference. Cause one person can do something. If you just sit back and pretend, like, you know, like, "Oh it's not my problem" or "I can't do anything about it", you're just adding to the bullshit. And don't talk shit about things you don't know about, like, bands like Thursday and Midtown and bands that are comin out that worked their asses off to get stuff. People call them sellouts because they got success. There's a fine line between selling out and success. Don't you think it'd be better to hear Thursday on the radio than Creed? Seriously. This is our scene, all of ours, support it! Don't fuck up venues. Don't be an asshole. It's not punk rock to be an asshole. And another thing. If you go to shows just to kick somebody's ass, you're stupid, you're a jock and you're fuckin ruining everything. I got into punk rock because I wasn't accepted anywhere else and it was a place where everyone was accepted for who they were and what they wanted to be and to go there and make that a scene thats scary for kids to come to, being elitists about that, just defeats the whole purpose. So don't be an asshole. LW: What do you have to say about the bashing that Midtown gets for the whole, uh, thing? Frank: Fuck you! Do you have any clue what happened with that? No! You have no clue dude. Seriously. Not that it's a situation to even be made known, but you don't know what they went through cause it's no one's fuckin business. And trust me. They worked for everything they've gotten.

[adultswim2021]

Tim & Eric Nite Live #4: “Cyber Monday” | November 27, 2007 - 10:00PM | S01E04

NOTE: The episode titles I’ve been using for this come from thetvdb.com and I have no idea from where they originated.

Another very memorable Nite Live. So far all these episodes are fairly comparable to one another. All of them have very strong, hilarious moments to relish. I love relishing things.

Tim and Eric begin by talking about online shopping and the then-new concept of Cyber Monday, an online shopping holiday. Tim got Eric the pathetic gift of a six-month trial membership to a Michael Douglas website. Tim gives Eric advice for when the six months are up: “You can download those pictures so you don’t even have to go back to the site!”. These boys are always on the make. Eric buys Tim a Man Doll: a full-sized handsome man. Tim seems a little wary but ultimately positive about the whole thing after Eric shows him a few photos of his toy in transit.  “It’s a fake man that I could spend time with!” Tim says. Eric eventually shows one product photo too many, showing that he’s got a big old TIm and a couple of erics between those trunks. “I don’t think I’ll need that part” Tim says, skeptically. Such a fucking hilarious moment. 

Tim and Eric also treat Richard Dunn and Tanese Gray to a romantic dinner in an attempt to jumpstart a romantic relationship. Tim and Eric ask Dunn if he brought Tanese a romantic gift. He did not, but they prompt him to check his breast pocket (they’ve clearly hooked him up). He pulls out a tacky looking piece of costume necklace with a dollar sign medallion. Very funny bit. George Kerr makes a return appearance, pretending to play violin to a pre-recorded record. 

Our first interview guest is Ben Hur, the announcer of the show. He’s a very unspectacular man who, despite lack of tan, seems to be in the late stages of having got too much sun. Eric shows off footage of him dancing culled from previously shot footage, and you can hear him genuinely giggle on the hot mic, instructing the editor to keep the interminable footage playing. It’s another great moment. We’ll join Ben Hur later on for a dramatic performance from a play called “The Italian Restaurant”. 

We get another David Liebe Hart song, a romantic one, to help lubricate Gray and Dunn’s burgeoning relationship. It’s pretty typical stuff from him. This is done at the expense of George Kerr, whom DLH can be seen mocking in a cutaway by miming playing the violin. That moment might be Hart at his most likable. The fact that he could harmlessly goof on another cast member without intimating that they are demonic pedofiles is pretty nice.

The thing that’s nice about Tim & Eric Nite Live is they produced content for it; little videos and stuff, that are unique to this show. They’ll sorta remind you of Awesome Show sketches, but less-elaborate, and it evokes the small-time comedy they made before they had a major outlet for it on television. It’s like if Spieleberg kept directing episodes of Columbo and Night Gallery after becoming a Box Office Bunny. This episode features a music video that’s meant to inspire the online shoppers out there by naming various dumb brands and products. Mervyns Gift Card is among them; at the time Mervyns was rapidly closing stores and would be completely out of business by 2009 . This sketch probably wouldn’t appear on Awesome Show just for clearance issues alone. 

Speaking of Awesome Show, Danny Mothers makes another appearance in the Tim & Eric universe, talking about Christmas movies. Danny Mothers is played by Bob Odenkirk, playing a sweetly retarded man who was sorta made BOBsolete because of the similar but more popular Steve Brule. On Cinema becoming a thing was the final nail in the coffin. This might be his swan song, unless I’m forgetting about anything after this. This one is filled with hilarious moments, and the slideshow Danny is working off of goes a little haywire. It seems sorta unplanned, and you can see a teensy little bit of Bob’s frustration bubbling through. 

We get two big show-stoppers: Ben Hur performing the aforementioned scene from “The Italian Restaurant”. Hur is awful, and this is another one of those squirmy moments. He seems ill-prepared and a little confused with his delivery, and this is absolutely the intended effect. This seems a little mean spirited; asking a guy who is patently not an actor to perform for them and have him look foolish? I don’t think you can make a moral argument for this. But goddamn, I love stuff like this. 

DLH ends the show with a prayer of some kind, and he just goes off the rails in spots. He does that classic crazy guy thing of just saying nonsense words that rhyme with what he’s saying. When you hear him say “sins and bins” you know we’re watching the genuine article.

[inspectorbram]

It’s not even a particularly important interview, it’s a short live one for a stupid online magazine. They’re streaming it to their site. It’s only supposed to be a couple light questions about Chuuya’s upcoming musical plans. It’s going well enough until the last question.

“Four months from now will be the seven year anniversary of when you and Osamu Dazai released your hugely successful first and only album Double Black and its diamond single Corruption. After performing with Dazai earlier this year, are you planning anything special to celebrate?”

People have asked him about Dazai a million times before. Every single time he’s given the correct response, that he’s not allowed to comment on ongoing Port Mafia Records legal disputes. It’s the answer he’d given when Dazai leaving had still been fresh, when he’d been so angry he’d had to practically force the words out.

But this time the expected answer doesn’t come out. Instead he can still see the bastard’s mocking smirk from a little over a month ago, still hear his perfectly chosen taunts that had gotten far deeper under his skin than he wanted to admit.

So instead Chuuya tells the truth. “Corruption is insanely overrated, and I would prefer to never hear Dazai’s voice for the rest of my fucking life.”

Needless to say, the interview goes viral almost instantly.

Dazai doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He’s sitting alone at a booth towards the back of the room, but not far enough that he can’t see the stage clearly. He just wants to avoid all the bodies crowding the stage and making fools of themselves. It’s a small crowd, but they’re extremely rowdy. 

Teenagers, he scoffs internally.

He’s only fifteen, but he’d never act like that. Dazai had arrived an hour ago and ordered the first thing he saw on the menu so his waiter would leave him alone. The untouched plate is sitting in front of him, he moves it around a little to make it look like he’s eating. He’s slowly nursing a cup of coffee and wishing he could just leave already.

Dazai has listened to a lot of terrible music since signing on with Port Mafia Records a year ago, but The Sheep are some of the worst. They’ve stumbled into having a semi-popular pop song playing on local radio stations, and have let this minor success go to their juvenile heads. They march around the stage like they’re more than children playing dress up and at being competent musicians.

It’s almost cute, how they throw on leather jackets and heavy makeup like that makes them dark and mature. Dazai bets he’s seen more than any of them in a week with PMR. Yet they parade around the small stage in the middle of the restaurant and greet their audience with smirks.

It’s not so much the arrogance that puts Dazai off, he’s used to that being surround by aspiring artists every day. It’s that not a single member of The Sheep has any genuine talent between the five of them. He’s read the file on all of them left by Mori when he was assigned this job, and he can’t figure out why the boss is wasting his time with this group. They’re coasting by on being attractive enough for their age and adolescent charm.

Their lead singer Shirase is barely passable at the simple melodies he attempts while flipping his silver hair. The lead guitarist is a cute girl with pink hair named Yuan that is focused so hard on not messing up she’s practically trembling with nerves. The redheaded keyboard player Chuuya plunks his way clumsily through the numbers. The bass player Akira is actually decent but in a dull, predictable way. The drummer Shougo only manages to keep the beat ninety percent of the time.

Overall, none of them are worth scouting as solo artists and Dazai doubts Mori is interested in signing them as a band. Dazai hates half the bands at PMR, but this would be a new low. They’re above this level of mediocrity.

The rest of the customers in the restaurant are idiots who don’t share his sentiments if their shrieking is anything to go by. They clap and cheer after every number, and the people harming their ears standing by the stage sing along to the insult to music. 

He sighs as the band finishes a truly offensive number titled Life’s Better With a Little Party In It (the name alone is enough to annoy him) and checks his phone. The band should be wrapping up soon. He flips through a couple texts with updates on projects he’s working on. 

He hasn’t been working with Port Mafia Records long enough yet to get any real challenges or music worth putting much effort into. He’s only been on a couple scouting jobs, and the artists those times had been palatable at least. He would have begged this one off on someone else if Mori himself hadn’t given it to him. He personally thinks Mori is despicable, but Dazai won’t get far in Port Mafia Records without his approval.

If Mori thinks Dazai is the right person for this job because of his age he’s mistaken. Dazai finds most people his age stupid, boring, or both. He certainly doesn’t share musical tastes with them.

“Thank you, everyone, you’re too kind.” The voice of the lead singer pulls Dazai’s attention back to the stage. Shirase is smiling at the audience in a way that they probably can’t tell is fake. “We’ve just got time for a couple more songs tonight.”

“Golden Demon,” someone calls out from the crowd. It’s a girl’s voice, somewhere close to the stage. It brings a smile to Dazai’s face for the first time since the band started playing.

Shirase’s face, meanwhile, drops the phony smile. “The Sheep don’t take requests. And we especially don’t play songs by Port Mafia Records bitches.”

That’s the other thing about this job that doesn’t make sense to Dazai. Port Mafia Records has a reputation, it doesn’t try to hide it. It was just as famous for shady deals with radio stations and concert venues as it was for the music it produced. Wild rumors about drugs and other illegal business surrounded the company (most of which are obviously true). The Sheep have made their dislike for PMR vocal, so scouting them seems like a waste of time even if they were talented.

Kouyou Ozaki is one of PMR’s artists from before Mori took over as the boss. She’s a powerful singer. Anything she sings is going to be butchered by The Sheep, and Golden Demon is her latest song. It plays on the radio ten times more than The Sheep’s little song.

“Come on, Shirase,” says the keyboard player, Chuuya. He stands up and plucks one of the microphones from the guitarist and brings it in front of him. Dazai is stuck by how short he is, he hadn’t noticed when he was sitting behind his keyboard. He seems to notice the tense atmosphere of the room after Shirase’s comment and keeps his voice light and smile wide. “We’ve got the time, and Golden Demon is good enough we can ignore it comes from PMR. Plus, how can we ignore a request from such a lovely young fan?” 

He lays it on thick by winking at the girl who shouted. There’s a release of tension in the air. Shirase fights off a scowl. The other band members seem torn between the two boys, but stay silent. 

Dazai is entertained for the first time this evening. So they aren’t the happy little family of teenage rebels they pretend to be. Fascinating. 

Chuuya and Shirase exchange a couple heated whispers but Chuuya seems to win because Shirase backs off and takes a seat on his stool with obvious discontent. The guitar player gives Chuuya an encouraging smile while the other two adjust their instruments for the number.

Dazai realizes that Shirase is sitting out for the number and is a little impressed by the singer’s pettiness. He’s really leaving his band out to dry on a song way too advanced for them because of selfish reasons. Maybe he would be a good fit at PMR after all.

Dazai is surprised when Chuuya keeps the microphone and adjusts it so it faces him. He doesn’t envy the boy. He can barely keep up with Kouyou, and he’s actually practiced with her. 

Chuuya fiddles with his keys in a short tune. He flashes another big smile as if he hadn’t just had a heated argument with his lead singer that they all witnessed. “We’ll give it our best shot. Here’s Golden Demon.”

He begins to play the opening chords with a confidence that was missing from any earlier songs. His fingers glide from key to key easily, and the sound comes out smoothly. He plays it at a slightly slower tempo than Kouyou’s version, the notes softer and more melancholic.

Congratulations on your engagement

Everyone says that it’s a smart match

You’ve traded your heart for quite a sum

I hope you're satisfied with your catch

Chuuya sings the first verse just like he plays the piano, soft and smooth and with a heavy sense of sadness. He draws out the words expertly, with a clear voice that drowns out the imperfections of the other band members. It isn’t the powerful, angry ballad that Kouyou sings, it’s a painfully earnest version.

The noise that was present during the other the numbers has hushed as Chuuya continues the song with the same level of skill. The wait staff is paused as well, taking in the music with a sort of reverence.

Dazai realizes he’s frozen with his coffee midway to his mouth staring at the keyboard player. He can feel the raised hairs on his arms. He quickly sets down the mug and schools his expression into something more neutral. 

He listens to the rest of Golden Demon raptly. Chuuya never falters, not at the range of the chorus, or when his guitar player gets lost in the middle of the bridge. He keeps singing and playing as if he’s the only one on stage.

It’s not a perfect rendition, he’s a bit pitchy on the high notes. Dazai can’t help being impressed at the raw talent though. He can’t remember the last time he heard someone so musically gifted just playing a song they liked with this level of expertise.

Chuuya Nakahara, he thinks to himself as the restaurant explodes into applause as the song comes to a close. Where the hell did Mori find you?

Dazai pays for his meal and slips out of the restaurant before the band can play anything else. He got what he came here for. He glances back as he walks out the door though. Shirase has taken over again, but he only has eyes for the short redhead back to playing music so crude it makes him sound unremarkable.

Dazai wonders how Mori is going to get him out from under The Sheep. He wonders why he ended up playing with people so far beneath him. He wonders when he’s going to get a chance to meet him properly.

For the first time in his life, Dazai is excited to work on music with someone.

There have been a lot of adjustments to his life since signing with Port Mafia Records, but Chuuya thinks the worst one is having to deal with fucking Osamu Dazai.

The smug bastard popped up constantly despite having his own projects to work on while Chuuya mostly does vocal training with Kouyou or Hirotsu. Yet Dazai was somehow always there, chiming in that he was still pitchy. Chuuya is ready to kill him.

He’d expected to hate working with PMR. He’d heard so much about their underhanded business and savageness while playing with The Sheep. It’s surprising how well he fits in here after how his employment originally started. 

He’d been forced into a recording contract with the threat of PMR buying out Gelhert Sound Services and dropping The Sheep after they’d finally gotten a record deal with GSS after months of hard work. The other members of the band had turned on him when they heard Port Mafia Records was interested in him as a solo artist. He can still hear Shirase accusing him of being a sellout, still feel the drop in his stomach that came with the words from one of his best friends.

The one to broker the deal had been, of course, Dazai, who had watched on smiling while Chuuya had watched the band who had become his family over the past years discard him. That alone was enough to make Chuuya hate the guy. 

He’d been ready to hate Ogai Mori as well. The man’s reputation made him sound like evil incarnate, a demon who didn’t care about any of his acts as long as he was profiting. Then Chuuya had met the man. 

Mori had been refreshingly honest with him, never pretending that he hadn’t tricked Chuuya into being here. Chuuya had been taken aback. He struggled to keep up as Mori casually commented Chuuya was the most gifted singer he’d met in recent years and with a bit of training had real potential. Chuuya had stumbled through a thank you while Mori moved on to his plans for Chuuya as an artist with PMR.

He’s not expected to put out any music right away, rather he’s supposed to learn more about the business while he trains his voice into recording shape. Chuuya just nodded as he was assigned to work under Kouyou Ozaki, grammy-nominated Kouyou Ozaki, and tried not to look like the overwhelmed fifteen year old he was.

The conversation had changed yet again while Elise had charged into the room. She’d come straight up to Chuuya, declaring that she loved The Sheep, him in particular, and gosh his hair was pretty. Chuuya noticed Mori’s allowance of the interruption and open look of adoration towards the girl and quickly slipped into his most charming smile.

Mori dismissed him after he promised to sing for Elise soon. But before Chuuya left Mori casually mentioned he’d admired Chuuya’s mother’s music as well. He even had some of her old compositions lying around, he’d get around to searching for them.

Chuuya’s throat had tightened as he forced out that he’d like that. He’s never told a single person about his family, not even The Sheep. He preferred to keep it that way. He clamped his hands around his wrists to keep steady.

Mori ignored his obvious discomfort and went back to chatting with Elise about shopping for new outfits. Chuuya realized why Elise had seemed so familiar as he walked out, he’d seen her at a show at a small restaurant in L.A. a couple months ago, she’d been close to the stage and requested Golden Demon.

He couldn’t help but smile and shake his head as he walked out of the room. Ogai Mori was not to be messed with. He’d been manipulated every single second of their meeting, and even before that, yet he couldn’t help but respect the man. 

That was two months ago, and he’s only seen Mori in passing since. Every time he’d been sure to be as courteous as possible. Mori always kept that knowing smile on his face and informed him he was pleased with his progress. It kept Chuuya motivated to keep working hard.

Right now he’s on his way to meet Kouyou. He adjusts his tie as moves through the PMR office. Kouyou had forced him to start dressing in suits instead of “delinquent nonsense.” He misses his leather jackets. The suit jackets are much less comfortable. 

Chuuya manages a speck of his old look with a leather choker. Dazai told him it looked like a dog collar, but Chuuya doesn’t take fashion advice from losers who wrap themselves in bandages (for reasons Chuuya is still trying to figure out).

He arrives to the area of the building Kouyou unofficially dominates. The decor is more refined and all the people who work here keep their tones light and know better than to disturb the woman with the corner office.

He nods to a couple people as he approaches that office and raps on the door a few times. He hears a voice call him in and enters with a grin already on his face.

If the worst part of his new employer is Dazai, the best part is Kouyou.

“Chuuya,” says Kouyou, as if she’s surprised he’s there and hadn’t told him to be here at this exact time (being late was a mistake he made once that he’s never going to repeat). She looks up from the papers she’s reading to smile at him. “I was just finishing up. Why don’t you pour us some tea?”

It’s not a request. He nods anyway and crosses over to her outrageously expensive tea set and gets to work making two cups. Kouyou swears by tea as good for the vocal cords and makes Chuuya drink it constantly. 

He sets one of the cups on Kouyou’s desk and holds onto the other while he takes a seat in one of the plush chairs in front of the desk. He blows on it as he watches Kouyou make meticulous notes on documents that appear to have nothing to do with music.

Kouyou finishes her work and slides it into a folder easily. She calmly sips her scalding hot tea. “How’s your voice doing today?”

“It’s fine. I already ran through the morning warm ups.”

Kouyou nods, looking pleased. Chuuya had been intimidated the first time he’d been sent to Kouyou, figuring she’d see working with him as a waste of time. Instead she seemed to care about Chuuya as a person first and an artist second. Sure, she was sharp and god help you if you pissed her off. But she also took the time to really get to know Chuuya, to ask him questions and remember the answers.

Chuuya may respect Mori, but he cares about Kouyou. It hurt more to disappoint her as a person than as a mentor. He wants to be worthy of all the effort she’s put into making him a better singer.

“I had something new I wanted you to take a look at,” says Kouyou. She sifts through the papers on her desk to bring out a stack of sheet music. She flicks through the pile. “I could use another pair of eyes on the second verse. It’s not flowing.”

Chuuya takes the sheet music she hands him and steals a pen from the desk. He skims the beginning to get the feel of the song before focusing in on the section Kouyou wants him to look at. 

He frowns at the page, he tends not to write down his own music. He prefers to hear things played out rather than read them. It just makes more sense to him. Kouyou is trying to strip him of this habit, but they haven’t made much progress. She says it’s fine for him but then other people won’t be able to play the song how he wants them to. He bites back his reply that he doesn’t write music for other people.

The door opening catches both of their attention. Kouyou is displeased at the lack of knocking, Chuuya is displeased at the person who walks in. Dark brown eyes meet his and Dazai smirks lazily as he enters the room.

“Kouyou! Sorry to interrupt,” says Dazai, not sounding sorry at all. He made his way to the desk and handed the folder in his hand to Kouyou. “Mori wanted me to drop this off for you. I didn’t know chibi would be here.” He directs his taunt at Chuuya and leans against the chair next to his. 

“I am fifteen, I am still growing,” Chuuya snaps back immediately. He regrets it when Dazai’s smile just widens. He fights down the anger with a glance towards Kouyou. Normally he’d tell Dazai exactly where he could shove his childish games but he doesn’t want to loose his temper in front of Kouyou. She seems to be ignoring the two of them in favor of reading whatever Dazai handed her anyway.

“I’ve heard that anger can stunt your growth,” says Dazai. His tone is light and airy, but you can see the delight in his eyes. “You should work on that temper of yours, Chuuya. I don’t think you can afford to lose any inches.”

Chuuya takes a measured breath instead of punching him. He gives him the dirtiest look he can and goes back to studying the sheet music Kouyou gave him. He feels Dazai reading with him over his shoulder and continues to ignore him.

“This sequence of chords isn’t going to work,” says Dazai. He reaches over Chuuya to cross out a section with Chuuya’s pen that he hadn’t even felt him grab. Chuuya wants him to be wrong, but he isn’t.

That’s the most irritating thing about Dazai. For all his insults and nagging and posturing, he was a musical genius. And he was insufferable about it. He could read a piece of music once and pick out all the problems in detail, or recognize off notes when he heard them easily. He constantly told Chuuya he was pitchy, which means he probably is. 

The songs Dazai worked on were musically perfect, from start to finish. But it was almost clinical, there was no deeper emotion or feeling to anything. It was beautiful in a cold, distant way. Chuuya couldn’t stand any of it.

“The real problem is the lyrics,” argues Chuuya. He takes the pen from Dazai and scribbles on the words that sound off to him. Dazai hums but doesn’t disagree. Chuuya squints as he tries to come up with better words. He can’t do it with just paper though. “Hey, Kouyou, can we take this to somewhere with a guitar or a piano? I want to sound it out.”

“I leave it in your small hands,” says Dazai brightly. He exits Chuuya’s personal space to stand up fully. He nods to Kouyou and waves obnoxiously to Chuuya as he skips out of the office. 

Chuuya rolls his eyes at his retreating form and turns back to Kouyou. She’s watching him with a thoughtful look that makes him slightly uncomfortable. “I’ve been puzzling over the problem with that song all week. You two could be a lot more useful if you stopped all the theatrics and collaborated.”

“He starts it,” mutters Chuuya under his breath. He sees Kouyou narrow her eyes in disapproval and quickly speaks again. “Plus, like I could get anything done with shitty Dazai constantly putting down all my ideas and calling me an untalented beansprout.”

“Dazai knows you’re talented, Chuuya,” says Kouyou. She looks disappointed in him in a different way, one that instantly makes him feel smaller. She speaks as if she’s explaining something he should already know. “He’s the one who scouted you to sign with Port Mafia Records.”

Chuuya scrambles for what to say. He has to swallow hard before he can get the words out. “I thought Mori sent Elise to scout me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Chuuya,” says Kouyou, shaking her head. “Mori might dote on the girl, but she’s only nine years old. He would never leave business decisions up to her. PMR would only sign pretty boy bands if she had her way. Mori only sends people whose opinions he trusts to find new acts.” 

Chuuya tries to make sense of that. Dazai has belittled him in every single conversation he’s ever had with him, from the moment they met while he was still part of The Sheep. He constantly mocked his height and went of out his way to bother Chuuya. Yet he was the one who recruited him?

Kouyou continues on as if he isn’t having a personal crisis in front of her. “I was surprised when I read Dazai’s report on you. I’d never seen him be so complementary of someone. He wrote that your version of Golden Demon was musically extraordinary and with a bit of work could outshine the original. He included strategies on how to get you to sign with PMR and recommended moving as quickly as possible. I’ve rarely seen him put so much effort into an assignment.”

Kouyou states all of this matter of fact, and Chuuya has to work to keep his face somewhat neutral. On the inside he was reeling, Dazai thought his singing was musically extraordinary? He can’t correlate the words with the Dazai he knows. Then he catches on to the rest of what Kouyou said.

“Please, like anyone could ever sing Golden Demon better than you could, Kouyou,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. Kouyou’s bright smile lets him know he said the right thing. She chooses not to comment on it though.

“Let’s go work through the trouble with this verse then,” she says, standing up and leading the way out of the room, knowing he’ll follow. She takes them to a room a couple doors down that holds Kouyou’s favorite work piano.

Chuuya half pays attention as they walk along. Kouyou has read Dazai’s report, which means that it still must exist somewhere. Which means he can steal it. He’s already got a handful of ideas where it could be.

Chuuya is going to hang it on his god damn wall…wait no, then Dazai might take it and destroy it. 

He’s going to have to make a million copies.

The most annoying thing about Chuuya is that he keeps surprising Dazai (and there are plenty of annoying things about Chuuya). Ever since he’d opened his mouth and started singing Golden Demon with an irritating amount of skill and grace Dazai found himself constantly caught off guard by the small redhead.

Dazai had resolved to not underestimate the boy after that but it just kept happening. One day he’d walked in on him and Kouyou speaking conversational Japanese. He’d been horrified to learn that not only could Chuuya sing and play the piano, but he could also play the guitar and write music too.

Dazai’s music was superior, of course, but Chuuya always managed to wring out more emotions from the song than Dazai would. 

Dazai made sure to surprise Chuuya just as often. It wouldn’t do for this whole business to be one-sided. The memory of Chuuya discovering Dazai could sing never failed to bring a smile to his face. He can still see the redhead’s dumb open-mouthed stare. His voice had been so squeaky when he’d accused Dazai of keeping secrets.

Chuuya still spent most of his time with Kouyou though. Dazai isn’t sure why Mori is keeping him on such a tight leash. Chuuya’s voice had been a little rough around the edges when he’d started, but it wasn’t anymore. He wasn’t involving him in any major music projects, which Dazai thought was a waste. 

Dazai, meanwhile, has more work than ever. He’s given song after song to edit and make less terrible. He approves album covers and marketing strategies. His desk is an unending stack of tasks that keep him occupied if not bored out of his mind. 

So Dazai has to get his entertainment when he can. That’s why he’s blowing off a meeting to beat Chuuya for the fifth time at the arcade fighting game they’re playing.

Chuuya lets out a hilarious amount of swears as he watches his character die again. Dazai had barely had to taunt him into coming. He’d casually implied that Chuuya was too stupid to beat him and Chuuya had practically dragged him here.

“Fuck,” says Chuuya again. He looks out of place in his suit among the other arcade customers. They both do. Everyone else is giving them a wide berth, which Dazai prefers.

“Nobody likes a sore loser, Chuuuuuya,” gloats Dazai. He smirks at the fuming redhead. “What have I won again? You have to be my errand boy for the next month?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Chuuya is glaring at the game, as if it’s his fault for letting him down. The lights of the arcade glow on his skin, turning it as red as his hair.

“Unless Chuuya thinks he can beat me? I could use a slave for two months.” Dazai holds up another set of quarters, already ready to beat Chuuya again.

“I won’t be here in two months.”

Dazai almost drops the quarters. He can’t fight the automatic frown. Chuuya seems surprised that he didn’t know. 

“Kouyou’s going on tour in Asia,” says Chuuya. He shrugs. “She asked me to come with her.”

Dazai vaguely recalls hearing about plans for setting up the tour. He hadn’t been part of them, but he knew it was happening. It shouldn’t be such a shock that she’d ask Chuuya to go with. Kouyou adored Chuuya. 

But it was a shock. Chuuya was going to be gone for months. Dazai plays with the quarters in his hand absentmindedly. It didn’t matter really. He could find new ways to amuse himself. He could-

“You could come with.” Chuuya seems just as surprised at his own words as Dazai. 

See? This is what he means. Despite all his efforts, Chuuya keeps doing things that Dazai doesn’t expect. 

It’s annoying. 

Dazai blinks quickly to try and process the offer. “Unlike you, I actually have work to do here,” says Dazai, dismissing the idea easily. “I don’t just follow Kouyou around like a lap dog.”

“Tell Mori you want to experience a new side of the business,” says Chuuya, ignoring Dazai’s attempts to piss him off. He looks calculating and serious. It’s not a look Dazai sees often. “You want to hear how music sounds in different arenas so you can account for it. You want to learn more about international markets so you can be more successful in generating sales for PMR overseas.”

All of that sounds exactly like something Dazai would say, and exactly like something Mori would go for.

Dazai hums as if thinking it over. Chuuya is tense, watching him. He smirks at Chuuya. “Well, I suppose I could tag along, if Chuuya is going to miss me so much if I don’t.”

Chuuya scowls immediately. “Never mind, stay here and rot.” He rolls his eyes and starts to walk away.

Dazai falls in step with him, slipping the quarters back in his pocket. “It makes sense that you need me to come, they don’t let dogs fly unsupervised overseas-ow! Chuuya’s elbows are so pointy!"

[theageoftheunderstatement]

Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner shares details of new album The Car in Big Issue exclusive

By Adrian Lobb, 24 Aug 2022

Arctic Monkeys singer Alex Turner has lifted the lid on the creative process of new album The Car in a global exclusive interview with The Big Issue.

The Sheffield band have announced their seventh LP will be released on October 21, picking up where 2018’s jazz-inspired, intergalactic Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino left off. But “on this record, sci-fi is off the table. We are back to earth”, Turner hinted.

“I think we’ve got closer to a better version of a more dynamic overall sound with this record,” he told The Big Issue. “The strings on this record come in and out of focus and that was a deliberate move and hopefully everything has its own space. There’s time the band comes to the front and then the strings come to the front.”

After six straight No1 LPs – from 2006’s phenomenon Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not to 2018’s cinematic Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino – singer-guitarist Alex Turner, drummer Matt Helders, guitarist Jamie Cook and bassist Nick O’Malley hope The Car will be their seventh straight UK number one album.

The record was made with the band’s regular producer James Ford at Butley Priory, a converted monastery in rural Suffolk, in the summer of 2021. The decision not to go to a regular recording studio was inspired by some rock-and-roll legends, Turner said.

“There’s a bunch of Led Zeppelin and Stones records where they were in this house in the country and then they went and sorted it all out and overdubbed it elsewhere,” Turner revealed.

“We went there in the summer, took all the equipment, got the raw material and then took it on elsewhere.”  

The release of The Car comes 20 years after the band’s formation as teenagers in Sheffield in 2002. Although the sound may have mellowed and evolved beyond the raw power of 2006’s Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not — the fastest selling debut album in UK chart history — Turner says they’re still staying true to their roots.

“You have to follow your instincts in the same way you did in the first place,” he said. “In that way, it does all feel like it’s connected to us 20 years ago in the garage when it was pure instinct.”

The Big Issue enlisted Martin Compston, star of BBC1’s Line of Duty and Arctic Monkeys superfan to interview Turner. Over the course of a weekend at Sziget festival in Budapest, Hungary, he got to know the band before sitting down with Turner then watching their set from the side of the stage.

The new album, said Compston, is “fucking class”.

“Hello You is a belter. And [There’d Better Be A] Mirrorball? Wow,” he said, calling it a song with “Bond villain overtones”.

“It’s a response I’ve had to other things we’ve composed,” replied Turner, “this idea of something sounding ‘cinematic’. I never completely subscribe to it, but it’s louder this time.”

The full, wide-ranging interview between the pair will be in The Big Issue magazine on sale from Monday August 29 and is available for pre-order now from the Big Issue Shop.

Before then, the band return to the UK for their first shows on home shores for four years, headlining Reading Festival on Saturday August 27 and Leeds on Sunday August 28.

The setlist has been evolving during a string of summer festival performances, their first in three years, with new song I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am sending online fan forums ablaze with excitement after it was played in Switzerland on Tuesday.

And with the announcement of the new LP, speculation is growing that more of the 10 new songs — There’d Better Be A Mirrorball, I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am, Sculptures Of Anything Goes, Jet Skis On The Moat, Body Paint, The Car, Big Ideas, Hello You, Mr Schwartz, Perfect Sense – could be unveiled during their headline sets at this weekend’s Reading and Leeds Festivals.

“It’s quite mysterious, to me, right now, at this moment in time, the setlist and what the order of that should be,” Turner mused, such is the strength of their back catalogue.

“This time has passed over the last few years and certain things don’t feel the way you expected them to anymore. That sounds sad, but it’s not. There are just certain things that represented certain moments in the past that now feel like something else, so they should be somewhere else. I’m still definitely very much working it out.

“It’s exciting to perform again,” he added. “But we are still shuffling the deck on the setlist.”

[poptod]

Cyber Security (Elliot Alderson)

Description: An online ad leads him to you, though in reality he has little interest in your ad. What interests him is how you accidentally doxxed yourself and how oblivious you are to that fact.

Notes: idrk what to say about this one its one of those things that i wrote at midnight after almost falling asleep to a fantasy and then realizing it could work as a fic. like i did this same thing with ‘close your eyes’ that one was also a before-bed-to-get-to-sleep fantasy. this is also not a particularly romantic interaction, though it can be read as such WC: 2.2k

+

Sweat drenched his sheets, bathing him in the cold wind that breezed past his only air conditioner lodged in a nearby window. He stared blankly upwards, half shivering and half overheated, as he once again found himself in a familiar predicament—the practice of sleep.

It was no secret he had trouble calming himself down, and that aspect of himself reached into the evening, as well. He already downed three melatonin pills hours earlier, along with smoking a joint that should’ve put him to bed. Unsurprisingly, that did not work.

“Xanax,” he mumbled to himself, hearing it bounce back from empty walls. “Need to get xanax.”

In the meantime he raised himself to his feet, padding across freezing floors to his computer. With a click of a button the white screen buzzed to life, shining bright onto his sleep-heavy eyes, that did their best to acclimatize to the sudden change.

Hypnotization—strange as it might’ve been—had worked a couple times before. Not all the time, but decently enough to give it a try. He had work in the morning and he didn’t need to be more miserable than usual, especially since he hadn’t slept almost the entire weekend.

sleep hypnosis

The blinker flickered for a moment before his fourth finger slammed down on enter, the last step in calculated movements. What popped up first was a video titled [ SLEEP HYPNOSIS ] 8 Hour Loop with a screencap of a spinning black and white screen. Below that, however, was something he hadn’t seen before—a YouTube video titled exactly what he’d typed, lacking the caps just as he had. The title screen appeared to be some sort of poorly-drawn painting.

Curiosity overcame his hazy, aching head, and he clicked, finding a playlist of videos containing what could be the titles of songs, along with several different poorly-drawn title screens.

The first video began to play before he could realize it. What he first noticed was it was bereft of ads—that meant the publisher made no money off the album.

Sat in the presence of God

whose name means filthy old fraud

Captions had been manually added by, he assumed, you. The author. There were three views on the video, no comments, and no likes, leaving few other options.

Maybe it was the melody—maybe the lyrics, who talked of a world plagued by aristocrats. But he found his eyelids heavy, dropping dark eyelashes in his vision that blurred the screen. By the third song, reciting verses of an Islamic poem, he was slouched in his seat.

He slid down to the floor, crawling his way back to flop onto his bed. The music continued to play till the first ad popped up, at which time he opened his eyes, seeing a music video from Katy Perry, at which time he promptly reached over and unplugged his computer. He wasn’t sure which cord he pulled out, but the screen still went black. With that, he just barely sneaked into his covers, dozing until the morning.

It was far too easy to get information on you. Your full name was stated clearly in your youtube bio, alongside several different social media tags leading to instagram, tumblr, and facebook.

Facebook alone provided him the means to your address, and he didn’t even have to go looking for it. Your most recent post was an ad, searching for someone good with computers to aid you in your recording process, which you noted as ‘dismal’.

Are you fucking kidding me? He thought to himself, reading the ad once more.

Your address, your real, physical address was stated as the place you wanted to meet those interested in helping you. On the internet. You had doxxed yourself after less than a year of being online.

Okay, he thought, clicking on your listed email. Someone needs to be taught a lesson.

Three days later—after about two weeks of listening to your echoing voice every night—you replied, sending a cheerful email detailing when you would be available to meet him. After shooting a short message back, the date was organized.

Two more days and he was standing at your doorstep, his neck craned upwards as he scanned your tall, narrow home squished between two other apartments. He just barely knocked before the black door swung open, revealing a familiar face belonging to a stranger. Elliot was dressed in his black hoodie and jeans, a stark difference to your long, colorful robes, coming out of a sort of fantasy world.

“Hi,” he said, his voice grating with how low and quiet he kept it.

“Hello,” you said with a smile that did not match his hunched posture. “Are you Mr. Alderson?”

“Elliot,” he corrected, his chin just barely raising to meet you. “Elliot Alderson. Elliot works.”

“Alright,” you said, nodding. “Come inside? I was just making tea. Do you like tea? Or do you prefer coffee?”

“I... I’m fine, thanks,” he said softly, scooting past you when you opened the door wide enough for him to enter. He sucked in a breath as his chest brushed yours.

Your home was modern—far fancier than Elliot’s own apartment, with large windows flanked by soft grey curtains. A small, upright piano was in the corner of the living room, set upon a reed mat lined with Korean symbols. The couch was clinical, made of a sort of black plastic leather that matched the grey skies beyond the window panes.

He sat down, shifting his feet closer together as his fingers dug into his palms, continuing to scan the room in its’ entirety until you returned with your own tea.

“What kind of experience do you have? School counts,” you said, setting your cup down on a tiny plate whose decorations matched your teacup.

“I’ve been... experimenting, with computers, since I was around 9,” he said, mumbling the words out as his shoulders hunched awkwardly down. “Have a job at a cyber security firm. Started a while back.”

“You still have that job?”

“Yeah,” he said with a small nod. “Jus’ thought this would be... fun.”

The dead look on his face indicated no humor whatsoever, but you took his word as it was.

“How’d you find the ad I put out?”

“I... I listened to your music,” he answered honestly for once. “Helps me fall asleep.”

“Oh,” you said, clearly taken aback. Your face grew warm as you glanced away with wide eyes. “I’m glad I could help.”

“You’re not very good with technology, though,” he said in his usual low, grating voice.

“Not really,” you chuckled sheepishly. “That’s why I put out the ad -“

“No, not that,” he interrupted you. “You put your physical address on the internet. You doxxed yourself. Do you even know how dangerous that is?”

The lyrics of your songs pointed towards a kind of brilliance, balanced against emotions felt thoroughly on pages and screens. It didn’t match your actions at all.

“What’s doxxing?” You asked.

Elliot had to physically stop himself from sighing and leaving.

“You want everyone to know where you, a minor celebrity, live?”

“I’d hardly call myself a -“

“I could’ve been a murderer,” he said, reaching into his bag.

He looked you in the eye as he pulled out a gun, clicking on the safety before he pointed it at you.

“This is how easy it would be to kill you.”

As expected, you stiffened at the sight of the iron barrel, your fingers withdrawing to your chest. Your lips pursed as you met his gaze once more.

“Please put the gun down,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

He did as you said, resting the gun on the table.

“That’s a hell of a way to start an interview, Mr. Alderson,” you said quietly. “Please get out of my house.”

His heart sank. What had he expected? For you to fall to your knees and sing to him as he desired you to do? He threatened you with a gun to teach you a lesson, and you reacted accordingly. Calmer than others would.

Elliot stood on shaky legs, sliding the pistol into his backpack before he zipped it up. Throwing the pack over his shoulder, he swallowed through a tight throat, shuffling as he delayed his departure.

“Keep safe from people like me,” he said in a strained mumble. “Take that ad down. Meet people from the internet only in inhabited, public areas.”

You tapped your fingernails on the table for a moment, chewing on your bottom lip. Suddenly you stood, tugging on his sweatshirt sleeve to get him to face you, instead of staring at his feet.

“Alright. If you’re really so good at the internet -“

He ignored your incorrect grammar.

“- and... if you actually do want to help me with my songs,” your tone softened, “then you’ll be able to find my real name, not my stage name. If you do.. I’ll hire you.”

“Alright,” he said monotone, knowing the battle was already won.

Even though he knew your name already, he turned away and left to his apartment, immediately going to work on figuring out everything he could about you. If you willingly still offered him the job after that, he knew it would take a lot to scare you off. He could impress you.

It was, after all, the only thing he was good at.

Two days later he showed up at your apartment again, quietly thanking you when you let him in. The clean floors and walls remained unchanged since his last visit, and you led him to the same table, sitting him down on the same seat.

“Your name is (Y/N) (L/N),” he started with. You already appeared to be surprise. “You grew up near LA and you’ve had a chronic illness all your life. At eleven you saw your first therapist.. that must’ve been when you first got diagnosed with depression... and anxiety.”

“Killer duo,” you muttered.

“Your parents split when you were thirteen, which came at the same time as your dog, Penelope, died. Or... sometime that year. When was that... 1997?”

“1999,” you said quietly.

“Your mom homeschooled you,” he continued. “That’s probably why you don’t know how computers work. Rather eclectic, in a.. boring way... an ex-Amish, right?”

You nodded and his heartbeat tripled. Everything was right thus far despite a two year difference in his guesstimate of your life’s timeline.

“Then there was your dad... logger in the Redwood forests. Burly guy. Not a great man, from what I saw,” he said.

“He was fine,” you said with a small shrug as you looked away. “Didn’t ever hurt me, or anything.”

“Abuse isn’t always physical,” he said faster than he could think, dizzied by his own memories playing behind his eyes.

“I know,” you murmured.

You went silent, so he continued, hoping to pry more precious words from you.

“Your favorite color is yellow,” he said, leaning closer to you. “On Valentine’s you get chocolate strawberries, and on easter you get kinder eggs.”

Nothing.

“You studied mythology as a kid, and you made paintings of the forest you lived in with your mom. Santa Cruz mountains, I think.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I miss the forests.”

“I know. You want to visit Ireland again because it’s a land of faeries and moss, it’s a breeding ground for your song lyrics.”

“How did you find all this out?” You finally asked.

“You use the same password on everything,” he said, though that was far from the actual answer. “Your web browser tracks all your movements and you don’t try to stop it, or hide ads, or stay away from sketchy websites. Your parents aren’t much better, either.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you brought your hand to massage your brow.

“You’re way too smart to be helping me,” you said with soft laughter, blushing with your smile.

“It’s better than working for E Corp,” he said, huffing out a laugh that was hardly humored.

“E corp?”

“My.. uh, place of work,” he brushed off his slip. “My point is... I’d rather work with you and do easy work than work with my current fucking coworkers.”

You laughed, truly and fully this time, curling into a little ball that shook with the force of it. Your feet tucked into your tiny chair, making you even smaller.

“Bad people or just annoying?”

“Stupid,” he chuckled. “Don’t let me wear my sweatshirt.”

“Ooh, now it’s my turn,” you suddenly interrupted him, earning a strange look. “I’ve noticed things about you, too. I couldn’t learn anything off the computer, but you, you have anxiety too. Probably some childhood trauma.. maybe a dissociative disorder of sorts or a form of PTSD. Your jacket is like your home, and... you have sensory issues. Few types of fabric, don’t like to be touched, if I had to guess I’d say you might be autistic.”

“Blunt,” he said after a full minute’s silence.

“Do you mind?” You asked.

“No, not really.”

“Good. Then you’re hired,” you said with a smile, extending your hand for him to shake. “If you still want the job, of course.”

He watched you with evident apprehension, but took your hand after much thought, shaking with a firm grip.

“When do I start?”

[midsummersky]

Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner shares details of new album The Car in Big Issue exclusive

Alex Turner lifts the lid on new Arctic Monkeys album The Car in an exclusive interview with the Big Issue ahead of their return to UK live performance.

Arctic Monkeys singer Alex Turner has lifted the lid on the creative process of new album The Car in a global exclusive interview with The Big Issue.

The Sheffield band have announced their seventh LP will be released on October 21, picking up where 2018’s jazz-inspired, intergalactic Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino left off. But “on this record, sci-fi is off the table. We are back to earth”, Turner hinted.

“I think we’ve got closer to a better version of a more dynamic overall sound with this record,” he told The Big Issue. “The strings on this record come in and out of focus and that was a deliberate move and hopefully everything has its own space. There’s time the band comes to the front and then the strings come to the front.”

After six straight No1 LPs – from 2006’s phenomenon Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not to 2018’s cinematic Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino – singer-guitarist Alex Turner, drummer Matt Helders, guitarist Jamie Cook and bassist Nick O’Malley hope The Car will be their seventh straight UK number one album

The record was made with the band’s regular producer James Ford at Butley Priory, a converted monastery in rural Suffolk, in the summer of 2021. The decision not to go to a regular recording studio was inspired by some rock-and-roll legends, Turner said.

“There’s a bunch of Led Zeppelin and Stones records where they were in this house in the country and then they went and sorted it all out and overdubbed it elsewhere,” Turner revealed. “We went there in the summer, took all the equipment, got the raw material and then took it on elsewhere.”  

The release of The Car comes 20 years after the band’s formation as teenagers in Sheffield in 2002. Although the sound may have mellowed and evolved beyond the raw power of 2006’s Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not — the fastest selling debut album in UK chart history — Turner says they’re still staying true to their roots.

“You have to follow your instincts in the same way you did in the first place,” he said. “In that way, it does all feel like it’s connected to us 20 years ago in the garage when it was pure instinct.”

The Big Issue enlisted Martin Compston, star of BBC1’s Line of Duty and Arctic Monkeys superfan to interview Turner. Over the course of a weekend at Sziget festival in Budapest, Hungary, he got to know the band before sitting down with Turner then watching their set from the side of the stage.

The new album, said Compston, is “fucking class”.

“Hello You is a belter. And [There’d Better Be A] Mirrorball? Wow,” he said, calling it a song with “Bond villain overtones”.

“It’s a response I’ve had to other things we’ve composed,” replied Turner, “this idea of something sounding ‘cinematic’. I never completely subscribe to it, but it’s louder this time.”

Before then, the band return to the UK for their first shows on home shores for four years, headlining Reading Festival on Saturday August 27 and Leeds on Sunday August 28.

The setlist has been evolving during a string of summer festival performances, their first in three years, with new song I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am sending online fan forums ablaze with excitement after it was played in Switzerland on Tuesday.

And with the announcement of the new LP, speculation is growing that more of the 10 new songs — There’d Better Be A Mirrorball, I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am, Sculptures Of Anything Goes, Jet Skis On The Moat, Body Paint, The Car, Big Ideas, Hello You, Mr Schwartz, Perfect Sense – could be unveiled during their headline sets at this weekend’s Reading and Leeds Festivals.

“It’s quite mysterious, to me, right now, at this moment in time, the setlist and what the order of that should be,” Turner mused, such is the strength of their back catalogue.

“This time has passed over the last few years and certain things don’t feel the way you expected them to anymore. That sounds sad, but it’s not. There are just certain things that represented certain moments in the past that now feel like something else, so they should be somewhere else. I’m still definitely very much working it out.

“It’s exciting to perform again,” he added. “But we are still shuffling the deck on the setlist.” 

The full, wide-ranging interview will be in The Big Issue magazine on sale from Monday August 29 and is available for pre-order now from the Big Issue Shop.

x

[whoiwanttoday]

I am posting Leticia Bufoni today because I am finally catching up on this weekends X Games. I do this, I set it all to record and there is more than I can watch but also I sorta forgot and now I am behind but that's ok because no one spoils the X Games for me cause my idiot old friends would rather talk about golf for some reason. I'd rather choke to death on my own vomit than watch golf but you know, it's a truism as you get older, some people have no fucking taste. Anyway, I am catching up now and I am posting Leticia Bufoni cause I really like her but also because she's great. Certifiably great given she was presented with world records for being the most medaled summer games female athlete. It all makes me think of a few things. I remember a few years ago there was this shit talking online about how she wasn't that good, she was only popular because she's hot. Which is like... just an example of how there is nothing worse to be in this world than a woman because you will never be judged for what you do but you have to jump through a million other hoops first. She's good looking so she's not that good. Or she's good looking so that's what makes her good? It's just this wild set of circumstances where no matter what she accomplishes her looks take center stage and given the nature of my blog you can argue I am not helping. I can't defend that but what I can do is talk about what makes her great. She started competing professionally in this sport when it wasn't really a sport for women. Not competitively. She is one of the trailblazers and she was excellent and she helped grow the sport. And her looks are part of that in that if she hadn't been good looking maybe fewer people would have taken notice. I am not sure a woman should feel bad for looking good or for using that to her advantage in a world that puts a ton of value on it. "It's important you look good but only if objectifying you diminishes you, otherwise you are a bad person". But here is the thing, she is a good person, at least for her sport. It's part of what I have always liked about the X Games, in many ways it shows that sport doesn't need a gross culture of toxic masculinity. I am sure there are horrible people in the games but the overall vibe and culture of it is supportive and uplifting. It's a thing I have always appreciated and Leticia didn't just inspire little girls through her skating, she supports them now. There are people she competes against who were born after her first X Games (Rayssa Leal is probably the best female skater in the world right now and indeed was not alive when Leticia started) and a lot of these girls are better than her now just because young knees are needed in this sport (I mean she is still very good and can win but you know, there has been talk for a few years that she is getting too old). Young everything. And you know what, I can't see how that wouldn't chip away at you, make you bitter or sad or... something. But it doesn't appear to have done so, instead she is friends with these girls who no doubt looked up to her and she is supportive. I have heard them talk about how supportive she is in interviews. So I think about that and how weird it would be to want to tear someone down who is the best. Anyway, I am posting her cause it was nice to see her again and I am glad she is still skating and I feel like at least my small corner of the world is a better place with young girls being given more and more opportunities to do the things they love. Today I want to fuck Leticia Bufoni.

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

Mon 14 June ‘21

Louis Tomlinson Cooks is here!! Yeah it’s 100% for sure as delightful to watch Louis make himself a sandwich as you might have hoped, but how was his cooking? Well I’ll let Louis rate himself-- “I’m not gonna lie not that appetizing is it, I mean look at it,” he says when it comes time to taste his creation, plus, “chopping peeling slicing not great to be fair- everything else I’m all right” (he’s… not wrong, even aside from the peeler issues has this man ever held a knife??) but- “it probably tastes nice though as I said it’s not about presentation for me… [munches cutely]... it’s actually pretty banging, that’s actually quite nice!” Success! Maybe it’s cause he knows the secret to faking good cooking- “as you can see I don’t have a lot of cooking ability so the more butter the better,” I mean the experts can tell you, that’s advanced stuff right there! #Louis-aChild! Substituting mustard and ketchup for coleslaw is a bit of a bold move, but in a belated attempt to convince the kiddos to eat some healthy veg even though he won’t he does bravely try the cucumber strips despite being “not really a man for cucumber” and makes a pained attempt to be positive- “bit of crunch.” Oh and speaking of crunch I’m relieved to have learned that the waffle is NOT a waffle, it’s a crispy waffle shaped bit of potato; a much more reasonable fish sandwich addition than the American version of a potato waffle! Full Time Meals polled to see what people think of Louis cooking; the two choices are “it was amazing” and “the best,” THEY GET IT. My kind of Louis poll! Helen Seamons rated him a “10/10 for effort and entertainment”, Masterchef acknowledged Louis as one of their own, and Marcus Rashford keeps it simple- “my guy” with a lil heart. YEAH, SAME.

Harry showed up in Italy, where he was papped in Venice being driven around (with PA Luis) on a boat (as you do, in Venice). He’s in a cool embroidered Bode shirt and shades and fancy hair, looking good. He’s seen carrying his suitcase, taking photos, and resting his head on his arms looking like a model. One might think, since we just saw the My Policeman cast and crew on set celebrating the wrap of the shoot, that they were done filming and Harry was off to do something different, but nope, he’s there to film! The book has key scenes in Venice that folks had been wondering about the filming of, and David Dawson is also being boated around Venice for the paps, so, it seems that was just for the wrap of the *UK* filming, which makes sense I guess since it would mostly be different crew I imagine, and perhaps some of the main cast are done as well.

Liam’s NFT sale is happening tomorrow! If you’re confused and want more info, I’M NOT GONNA HELP THAT MUCH… uh but I mean you can check out Liam’s youtube video explaining though I would guess that won’t help much (even Liam thinks so; “there’s probably websites that explain a lot better than me” he admits). There is a roundup now posted of what’s on offer for the buyers of the NFTs but I’m gonna be really honest with you, I’m more confused now than I was before. It’s clear that there are only SIX LONELY BUG NFTs right? They for sure said that I believe. But the packages for each different piece (token bundles) seem to me like they’re available to multiple buyers? Like maybe you don’t get the NFT but multiple top bidders on each get the extras? Like they can’t be selling multiple copies of the NFT... can they?! Isn’t the WHOLE POINT that only one person gets to own it? I DON’T FUCKING KNOW I AM SORRY. What I think I understand to be true: the six NFT buyers get to go to “a once-in-a-lifetime immersive dining experience at Resorts World Las Vegas” (this is the dinner with Liam and “a selection of crypto leaders from around the world” which takes place on display inside a giant glass box) and also “a bespoke commemorative presentation box containing the world’s leading holographic display... with audio... and a custom made Lonely Bug commemorative coin,” and “a unique QR code directing the owner to a special ‘Director’s Cut’ edit of the short digital film ‘Making Of Lonely Bug Collection’ which features unreleased footage from the day of the drop showing the creators' reactions when the winning bids came in” (I mean YEAH I would think it’s unreleased it literally hasn’t happened?) But then there are really a lot of other extras including tickets with Meet & Greet access to any Liam Payne headline show around the world, admission to pool and cinema parties in Vegas with Liam, signed art, non-Liam extras (I will literally bid to NOT have 20 minute phone calls with those crypto entrepreneurs PLEASE… but that’s just me), and access to an online party hosted by Liam; I really get the impression many of these, especially the last one, are just crypto tokens that are for sale that aren’t linked to the main Lonely Bug NFTs and many more than 6 people can buy them but a lot of the extras I’m not clear on which it is. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll understand better WE WILL SEE.

Liam also dropped by the discord last night to say some hellos (after a “long long day”) and that he “bought a piece of NFT art of myself tonight I’m going to give it as a prize Monday night so someone can own a piece of art that was owned by me” (an even less tangible bragging point than simply owning an NFT wow that’s an achievement) and the most important update- “I want a French Bulldog”! Oh and he said “that’s like one I did myself” in his fanart channel to a pic of a tiny crocheted illustration of Louis and Harry holding up a rainbow flag. Didya Liam?? (...Liam is crocheting??) Anyway I recognize who it’s supposed to be because it’s based on a familiar piece of fanart, but Liam definitely might NOT realize it’s meant to be someone specific, and tbh I’m more <eyeballs> at him saying that at the rainbow flag crocheted thing than at it being shippy.

Our Song acoustic version is out this Friday!! And Niall talked about NH3 some in an interview today; “I’m in the studio most days, it feels really good. I’m kinda in the latter stages of it and then I’ll go get a band together and go in and record the whole thing. I’ve just kind of been writing for the past 9 or 10 months and really enjoying it” and “It sounds like a complete album. God knows when it’s coming out because I’d like to be able to get around the world to see all the fans as well” and “It’s different. It sounds a lot more grown up. I’m 27 so it’s about time. I really wanted to kinda cement a sound. The singles I’ve released previously have all been kinda different sounds. I would like to have my ballad sound & like a cemented uptempo sound.” He and Anne Marie also talked about one of the other songs they wrote together saying, “It’s kind of like a, how do you describe it- guitar driven meets Tom Petty meets Katy Perry meets…” but say “We haven’t really decided if we are putting it out yet, the conversations are kinda happening... but it’s completely different (from Our Song).”

[arcticpuppeteer]

Arctic Monkeys singer Alex Turner and actor Martin Compston share a laugh during their conversation in Budapest. Image: Lewis Evans

Arctic Monkeys’ Alex Turner shares details of new album The Car in Big Issue exclusive

Alex Turner lifts the lid on new Arctic Monkeys album The Car in an exclusive interview with the Big Issue ahead of their return to UK live performance.

Arctic Monkeys singer Alex Turner has lifted the lid on the creative process of new album The Car in a global exclusive interview with The Big Issue.

The Sheffield band have announced their seventh LP will be released on October 21, picking up where 2018’s jazz-inspired, intergalactic Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino left off. But “on this record, sci-fi is off the table. We are back to earth”, Turner hinted.

“I think we’ve got closer to a better version of a more dynamic overall sound with this record,” he told The Big Issue. “The strings on this record come in and out of focus and that was a deliberate move and hopefully everything has its own space. There’s time the band comes to the front and then the strings come to the front.”

After six straight No1 LPs – from 2006’s phenomenon Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not to 2018’s cinematic Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino – singer-guitarist Alex Turner, drummer Matt Helders, guitarist Jamie Cook and bassist Nick O’Malley hope The Car will be their seventh straight UK number one album.

The record was made with the band’s regular producer James Ford at Butley Priory, a converted monastery in rural Suffolk, in the summer of 2021. The decision not to go to a regular recording studio was inspired by some rock-and-roll legends, Turner said.

“There’s a bunch of Led Zeppelin and Stones records where they were in this house in the country and then they went and sorted it all out and overdubbed it elsewhere,” Turner revealed.

“We went there in the summer, took all the equipment, got the raw material and then took it on elsewhere.”  

Pre-order the magazine with the global exclusive interview from the Big Issue Shop now

The release of The Car comes 20 years after the band’s formation as teenagers in Sheffield in 2002. Although the sound may have mellowed and evolved beyond the raw power of 2006’s Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not — the fastest selling debut album in UK chart history — Turner says they’re still staying true to their roots.

“You have to follow your instincts in the same way you did in the first place,” he said. “In that way, it does all feel like it’s connected to us 20 years ago in the garage when it was pure instinct.”

The Big Issue enlisted Martin Compston, star of BBC1’s Line of Duty and Arctic Monkeys superfan to interview Turner. Over the course of a weekend at Sziget festival in Budapest, Hungary, he got to know the band before sitting down with Turner then watching their set from the side of the stage.

The new album, said Compston, is “fucking class”.

“Hello You is a belter. And [There’d Better Be A] Mirrorball? Wow,” he said, calling it a song with “Bond villain overtones”.

“It’s a response I’ve had to other things we’ve composed,” replied Turner, “this idea of something sounding ‘cinematic’. I never completely subscribe to it, but it’s louder this time.”

The full, wide-ranging interview between the pair will be in The Big Issue magazine on sale from Monday August 29 and is available for pre-order now from the Big Issue Shop.

Before then, the band return to the UK for their first shows on home shores for four years, headlining Reading Festival on Saturday August 27 and Leeds on Sunday August 28.

The setlist has been evolving during a string of summer festival performances, their first in three years, with new song I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am sending online fan forums ablaze with excitement after it was played in Switzerland on Tuesday.

And with the announcement of the new LP, speculation is growing that more of the 10 new songs — There’d Better Be A Mirrorball, I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am, Sculptures Of Anything Goes, Jet Skis On The Moat, Body Paint, The Car, Big Ideas, Hello You, Mr Schwartz, Perfect Sense – could be unveiled during their headline sets at this weekend’s Reading and Leeds Festivals.

“It’s quite mysterious, to me, right now, at this moment in time, the setlist and what the order of that should be,” Turner mused, such is the strength of their back catalogue.

“This time has passed over the last few years and certain things don’t feel the way you expected them to anymore. That sounds sad, but it’s not. There are just certain things that represented certain moments in the past that now feel like something else, so they should be somewhere else. I’m still definitely very much working it out.

“It’s exciting to perform again,” he added. “But we are still shuffling the deck on the setlist.”

[randombubblegum]

When do you think awsten really started to change? Like right after Fandom? I haven’t been a fan long enough to see the change, I just know he’s more annoying than ever and he makes fans mad. I’m surprised I’m still here 💀

I also don’t understand why he said in an interview that he’s doing so much better than he was prior to GH, yet I feel like GH has way more references to self-hatred and death than any of their other albums. I get his whole “fake it ‘til you make it” mentality regarding his confidence, but I can’t tell what’s real and what’s fake, and I’m sure other fans feel the same way. I know this is probably old news especially since GH has been out for almost a year now, but I’ve only recently started watching their interviews, recent and old, and I really do see a big difference

its hard to say exactly but id put him Changing For The Worse actually BEFORE fandom, like in early 2019? thats when he fell in with super annoying nasty twitter funnymen™ in la and it made him a JACKASS. like SUCH an asshole holy shit it was awful. hes cut all of them off now (with dog girl being the last to go actually lol) but the very observable change in how he acted online from “funny chaos-loving endearing jokester” to “self-absorbed asshole with mean jokes and cruel clapbacks” happened shortly after he befriended elijah daniel and company.

and then THAT comically self-aggrandizing attitude carried him through fandom and only snowballed from there….. before fandom he used to joke with otto and geoff like “WATERPARKS IS THE RICHEST BAND IN THE WORLD WERE SOOO RICH” and it was funny bc they were clearly an up and coming band so it wasnt like that!! but it was so endearing and funny you couldnt help but root for them!!!! but then when fandom era hit awsten was like…. not kidding anymore about wanting to be rich and famous and the vibe shifted noticeably. the whole “i want a big house i want nice things” motif mixed with the “its the FANS fault i dont have those, they wont let me be successful like i could if i were a rapper” kind of……. like entitlement isnt exactly the right word, but something close to it, started coming through.

fandom was honestly NOT an insightful or good commentary on fandom itself but it rly set the stage for awsten to be a huge self-centered braggart lol….. all this whining about how his fans like him too much or not enough, dont respect the boundaries online he actively rewards them for breaking, how hes not rich enough, etc etc all started there imo. and fandom did better than any album before it, partly because hopeless records put a lot of work into its promotion and partly because they were doing so well touring after entertainment….

and then it all fell apart honestly. awsten channeled the same shit but worse for gh and kept getting nastier and nastier with his attitude. like interviews are really the best way to judge this for yourself and i think youll see EXACTLY what im talking about when you do: they went from being cute funny character showcases of all the members, awsten cheerful and friendly and cracking jokes, to like….. awstens the only one talking. awsten going on about how great he is. awsten saying his music is the best in the world with no hint of joking exaggeration. geoff and otto go from being silent in the background to just not being there at all. it fucking sucks and i think its VERY clear why so many fans feel upset and let down when u watch the interviews all together

as for the last part of your ask yeah i think awsten is way worse off mentally and emotionally in the gh era than he was even during fandom. hes always had this self-aggrandizing overly confident abrasive persona he puts on to, yknow, be able to perform while also shielding himself from vulnerability, and thats normal. everyone used to like it even, since it was so clear he was puffing his chest up and faking it till he made it. now its become impossible to determine where the asshole braggart narcissistic persona STOPS and awsten the real person STARTS…… and the absolute worst part of all of this is that, based on how he treats his friends and partners when the cameras are off, it might not end at all. they legit might be one and the same at this point

[wiypt-writes]

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.

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 

“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."

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.”

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

[tokisguitarpick]

interruption part.1

characters: Skwisgaar Skwigelf x Reader 

doods, I really tried to make this one giant piece but I said that on friday, it’s fuckin wednesday, work has been kicking my ass, here’s what I got so far

The first time you met Skwisgaar Skwigelf was unfortunately also the first time you pissed off Skwisgaar Skwigelf. 

In your defense, you thought it would be prudent to bond with the support staff- your boss Charles, the music producer Abigail and her assistant Dick, the Klokateers, the people around the band- as soon as you could to cement your place at work first. After that, then you would really worry about Dethklok liking you. It's not that you were rude to them, hell your whole job was making sure their needs were met and they were secure and happy on a day to day basis. But if Charles asked you for a report at the same time Murderface told you to go get his dethphone from his bedroom, Charles took first priority. Which was why when you were sent to deliver a fax from Crystal Mountain Records to Abigail, you went diligently down the 4 floors it took to reach the studio and entered quietly, recognizing the red recording light on over the door. A brightly melodious guitar solo rang through the gothic studio rooms, sounding as exquisite as a Beethoven composition when unaccompanied by the rest of the death metal band, and you hovered by the door for a moment. You were nervous to disturb now that you heard exactly what they were recording. But your rationale won out and you decided to simply slip the fax to Abigail and leave.

Approaching her desk, you got a clear look at the source of the music and it caused your step to falter. Skwisgaar, tall and imposing, shredded his guitar with deft hands inside the recording booth, his fingers moving faster on the Gibson neck than your eyes could follow.

Instead, they moved to his face, taking in his closed eyes, his full lips parted, and a light sheen of sweat covering his skin as he worked. His long, cornsilk hair was uncharacteristically swept up in a messy bun at the nape of his neck, short tendrils made loose from exertion clinging to the edges of his face or else flowing around him. A bead of sweat caught your eye as it rolled down his Adams apple and your gaze trailed to his thin, defined arms and the muscles working under his skin, his long fingers showing off every ounce of skill he had. He looked nothing like the guitarist that took the stage with Dethklok, giving a heavy and thrashing performance. He looked at peace, a man entirely in his element. He looked heavenly.

Suddenly, every headline calling him a rock and roll god over a photo of him covered in ghoulish makeup felt entirely false. If only they could see what was in front of you now.

Sadly, all good things come to an end. Your faltered step caused you to squeak as you caught your balance. Abigail jumped and turned in her chair. The music ended with an abrupt squeal and Skwisgaar's icy blue eyes snapped open.

"Oh, who the fucks is this?!" he spat into the mic and you blushed, embarrassment finding a home in the pit of your stomach. Abigail sighed, looking you over with a crooked eyebrow.

"So sorry, I was just bringing this to you." You handed Abigail the fax and she unfolded the paper to read it over. Skwisgaar, who seemed to find your interruption bothersome enough, bristled as your eyes flickered between him and the music producer. He yanked the guitar strap off his shoulder and snarled, "Not evens anythings important! Get the fucks out of heres!" He held the guitar by the neck and gestured aggressively with it.

You jumped, turning tail and hurrying away as fast as you could without running. The only reasoning for his behavior came at the end of an email from Abigail, a throwaway line about it being crunch time with the production of the newest album. But sadly, that was the start of your professional relationship with the Dethklok member and it was a shame, that one instance coloring the way he treated your presence in Mordhaus. He didn't reply when you asked the band questions, he turned his nose up when you had to contain some of the band's more brutal ideas, he only ever referred to you as a servant, the list went on.

It was taxing and honestly, a little upsetting. You had managed to piss off Nathan your first week here as well but by the next morning, he greeted you with a joke about it and asked you to make a pot of coffee. You spent many afternoons wondering if there was any way to make it up to the haughty guitarist. And wondering what exactly you needed to make up in the first place.

The next climactic moment in your relationship came around the four month mark of your employment.

The acrid smell of burning plastic reached you as you walked past the hallway leading to the kitchen, making you sigh. You put a jump in your step, something at odds with the very exasperated expression you could feel on your face, and hurried to the source of the smell, the armful of dirty laundry you'd picked up in the living room discarded as you jogged. Entering the kitchen, it took no time to zero in on the small fire slowly growing on the stovetop. 

Toki and Skwisgaar stood over it, the former blowing frantically at the quickly blackening frying pan while the former flapped at the fire with a hand towel. The mere sight of Toki's long hair billowing around the open flame made your chest seize. "Guys, guys," you will be the first to admit, your voice came out in a shriek, "stop! Move!"

Toki jumped away from the stove with a welp, his eyes wild when he saw you. You snatched the fire extinguisher off the wall by the door and ran up to the stove. Skwisgaar still hadn't moved. If anything, he seemed to step in your way, blocking you from the fire. "I has it under controls, leave." His voice was hard and cold, almost jarring in contrast to the scene playing out.

 And in your bewilderment, you snapped. Months of irritation compounding itself into a rage that bubbled past your lips, you growled, "Skwisgaar Skwigelf. If you think-", you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and wrenched him back, "-for a goddamn SECOND-" Skwisgaar stumbled and you caught his slim waist in the crook of your arm, "-I'm going to explain to Charles-", you threw him behind you and lined up the extinguisher, "-his most arrogant guitarist got third degree burns because he was too fucking STUBBORN-" aim, "-to MOVE!" fire. You pulled the trigger on the fire extinguisher and doused the stove in a thick, chemical scented foam, holding it there until the fire was smothered. Breathing heavily, you spun around and shoved the extinguisher into the blonde's arms. "Then you're stupid, too," you murmured with venom.

Skwisgaar was a tall man so even face to face as you were, he still towered over you, his eyes icy and his hands overlapping yours on the safety equipment. His eyes traced your face and you could the heat coming off your cheeks but using all your strength, you softened your expression. "Stop freezing me out. I'm just here to help." Your voice was still low but much gentler, which seemed to throw him off. Skwisgaar's haughty face mellowed and his eyes dropped to your mouth, his bottom lip finding a place between his teeth unconsciously.

"Ja," Skwisgaar finally replied, a terse acceptance as he took the fire extinguisher from you. His eyes hadn't left your face for a moment and he just rocked back on his heels, keeping the equipment awkwardly held in front of him. "I suppose Charles woulds finds dat upsettings."

Breathing a sigh of relief, you finally looked back at the stove and frowned at the charred frying pan. "Can I ask what you guys were doing?"

Toki finally piped up, seeming relieved that you weren’t yelling at them. "We's were tryings to makes a grilleds cheese."

Eyebrows furrowed, you studied the charcoal in the pan until you recognized it as a whole block of cheese. The mental image of a new, freshly purchased block of cheese, still wrapped in the plastic, being placed by these adult idiots into the frying pan made your blood pressure rise and you immediately put it to the side, deciding against any other questions.

"Okay. Well. I'll order us some pizza."

That cheered Toki up immediately but Skwisgaar simply nodded once, his cheeks turning a very light pink.

From that point on, Skwisgaar seemed to slowly accept your place as a member of the support staff. Between riffing on your jokes and agreeing with you on occasion, you would've said that your relationship with Skwisgaar was the best it had ever been.

Unfortunately, this came with an unforeseen consequence. 

Now, you had a massive crush on Skwisgaar.

Okay, sure. Technically, you'd had a crush on him for a few years. Everyone in the world knew Dethklok and regardless if they liked the music or not, everyone had a favorite. Yours had always been the Swed. And sure, he looked hot as fuck in the recording booth all those momths ago. But all the following cold shoulder encounters had turned you off of the rock star, the withering look he shot you whenever you had tried to reign in the band members kicking any thoughts of fancy to the curb.

But that was before. This was after. The shock you felt later that day when he addressed you by name for the first time was electrifying. Instead of jestful barbs at your expense on the off chance he acknowledged you, Skwisgaar joked that you took no shit so Murderface better stop riling you up. No longer barking "Moves!" if you were in his way, he simply slipped past you, his hand warm against your upper- though once or twice, lower- back. Now you preened yourself when you knew you would see him, not wishing you could hide. It was driving you crazy.

You felt like a groupie or a schoolgirl, constantly fixated on your crush. Wishing and scheming to get closer when he was around you, his presence obscuring your thoughts when he was away. You had read all the print interviews available in the Mordhaus archives, watched the video interviews online, and had even followed a Dethklok fan Instagram to get a smattering of band photos on your timeline every day. You justified it all as being diligent at your job. But that only went so far, even with yourself. You stayed there, living in limbo for months as you wrestled with your feelings and professionalism. Skwisgaar, however, seemed oblivious to the effect he was having on you. You caught him staring at you sometimes but it was so few and far between that you simply chalked it up to him zoning out.

Or that's how you lived until Christmas.

You celebrated your winter holiday early so you could be on call for the band during actual Christmastime, which turned out to be a good idea. The mothers of Dethklok decided to visit the week leading up to the 25th, having skipped the year before on Charles' recommendation and they seemed exceedingly cranky due to that. The week itself was brutal - Nathan was broody and even quicker to anger than normal, Pickles hadn't been seen sober since they learned about the impending arrival, Murderface was essentially a walking scab from the anxious picking he'd subjected his arms to, and Toki was catatonic.

Of course, your focus was caught most by Skwisgaar. Sulky with a sour stomach, he kept his head down all week. He had his guitar glued to his hands and was second only to Toki in using avoidance as a defense mechanism.

It was incredibly stressful juggling between the bristled band members and their neurotic mothers. Charles himself said it would be at least a month before they could schedule any public appearances so the boys could decompress, and ideally avoid a PR nightmare. So to say you were glad to see their mothers finally leave, only Nathan's thanking you for attending to her, was an understatement.

After a long day of taking everyone to eat then to the airport, you had retired to your small Mordhaus apartment as soon as you could - which was pretty soon as the band seemed just as exhausted and had disappeared once you had gotten home.

You didn't reemerge until after midnight, sneaking out and down the hall to find something to eat at a quarter past twelve. The house was quiet on your walk to the kitchen but after grabbing your snack - a cold cut sandwich you had wrapped in a paper towel to avoid leaving a trail of crumbs - you heard soft, twinkling music coming from the living room as you passed it on your way to the elevators. Pausing to listen, you recognized it as guitar and wondered which of the guitarists were playing, given that Nathan was the only band member who couldn't. You wondered if Murderface had seen you head down and was trying to get your attention, a ploy he had used before, ending with your curiosity getting the best of you. You crept to the living room entrance to peek.

Skwisgaar sat on the sofa facing you, pale and glowing in the dim light coming from the arcade games. His eyes were closed as his fingers glided over the neck of his Gibson, his silky hair draping down his neck and naked shoulders. Seemingly dressed for bed, he was shirtless - though his guitar hid his midriff, to your disappointment - with a pair of black sweatpants on. He seemed lost in his music, strumming out a low melody with mastery.

Your breath caught as you took in the sight and you stood there silently, trying to photograph the moment in your mind, until you registered his expression.

Devastation.

His eyes were closed but tears were streaming down his gaunt cheeks, his quivering eyebrows were furrowed, and he was mouthing a song to himself, his full lips pale. He looked like a man at war with himself, lost and broken. The music was no longer soft and twinkling, it hung in the air like a funeral dirge.

As the past few days ran through your mind, every mention of Skwisgaar's childhood came back to you and all the pieces suddenly clicked into place. This wasn't a man lost, this was a man, once again, in his element. The grief and sickness he had been feeling all week was flowing out of his guitar like the tears from his eyes.

Feeling your own eyes prickling, you felt like this was too much, too personal, for you to see. But despite that, your heart ached and you were stepping forward before you registered the motion. "Skwisgaar?"

[astranva]

Dream With Me

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Some explicit language? Not really though.

Category: Pure fluff!

Summary: One thing Harry loves about his girlfriend is her ability to make up the most interesting bedtime stories for him every night. How does it make her feel when he narrates one of her own to the world?

Or

The one where Y/N makes up bedtime stories for Harry and he records one for the world to listen to.

        When you tour the world, sing and prance on stages, write, model, play the guitar and piano, get interviewed, have people follow you everywhere, it’s safe to say that the best time to relax and let loose is when you sleep.

Harry enjoyed staying home with his girlfriend more than anything. Relaxed, chill days were his favorite; days when she’d be on the couch reading or on her laptop playing whatever video game she decided to try with people from online, he’d be lounging lazily beside her, his breath steady and calm when she’d run her fingers through his hair momentarily or when he’d be subconsciously playing with hers.

Days when their apartment would smell like pastries after she’d try baking something she saw on the television, or when it would smell like her favorite homecooked meal that Harry’s eyes would almost glimmer with happiness when she’d sneak and steal from the food he was cooking, watching her closing her eyes and a smile making its way to her face the moment she does, and he’d know that he has done a good job this time, again.

Harry loved the domestic life as much as he loved his job as an artist and entertainer. The euphoria he got the moment the crowd sang back to him, is one that he felt he achieved as well when he was with his girlfriend of 2 years when she’d be dancing to his songs in his clothes. The happiness he felt when someone would hug him and tell him that he means so much to them, is one he feels within just her smile in mornings or the soft, random kisses she’d give him. The bashfulness that would engulf him when someone would tell him that he’s good looking, was one that he felt when his girlfriend would tease him by wolf-whistling when he’d show her a new outfit or suit or just going anywhere really.

Don’t even get him started on how he feels with every single “I love you” she promises him because he was sure there would be no feeling close to what he feels when he hears those words from her, and especially her.

But there was something else about her, too, that nobody could give him but her – her stories.

Touring the world and doing what he does is hectic, of course, it is. It can be stressful, pressuring, and just plain tiring. So when he goes back home later than her after her job, and he goes straight into her arms, she knows he’s going to need a story to sleep better.

He’d nuzzle his head in her neck, smelling the scent of her shampoo with a whiff of her bodywash, his arms around her waist, hers around his neck, her hands moving to gently and lightly scratch his scalp.

“How was your day?” Harry would mumble, closing his eyes and letting her softly sway them in their place.

“Was alright,” she’d answer softly, “How was yours?”

And the sigh he’d release would be enough of an answer – tiring.

“Take a quick shower, yeah? Are you hungry?” She’d pull back to look at him, a soft smile on her lips as she asks him.

Harry would shake his head, “No, still feel too full from lunch.”

“Let me grab you an apple though. Lunch was a long time ago.” She’d pat his chest, “Go. How do we feel tonight? Do we feel like rescuing dwarfs or ending capitalism?” She’d grin, and it would instantly make him grin.

“Anything is fine. Just want to sleep with you beside me.”

On some days, they’d lie on their bed and she’d make up a story about how there were 3 dwarfs who lived in a mansion with everything miniature-sized and would climb each other and wear a coat and a fedora whilst outside. Why? “You can’t tell me you never wanted to try that, Harry!”

Then on other days, she’d tell a story about a boy named Harry with a rapidly growing fish in his backpack. Ring any bell? She remembers starting that series a long time ago with him, adding twists, comedy, and metaphors along the way until Harry decided to surprise her one day with an idea for his music video;

“Hey, baby, remember the fish in my backpack? We’re using that in Adore You! See you soon! Love you xx” he had texted.

Other days she’d make him think with the most random questions and assumptions.

“History is biased, Harry. When will the world stop considering Christopher Columbus a discoverer and instead take accountability for what he did to the natives of the land? What if Christopher never happened?”

And he’d be looking at her as she talked, one of her hands playing with his hair while the other moved all over the place for emphasis and to show how absolutely wonderful and amusing that mess of her mind was.

Some days, she’d be too tired. Drained from a day at her work, she’d be lazily playing with hair as her story was told in some sort of slurs.

“And then-And then they held hands, got on their horses and- no, they got on their skateboards,” she’d chuckle sleepily, “And they ran away. They didn’t have children because they didn’t want children and figured that the world was too ugly for that right now, so they adopted a blind dog and a deaf cat, and lived happily ever after.” She’d be out the moment she finishes, and Harry would be smiling at that and his heart thumping with love for her and love for how hard she has been trying to keep the ritual of a bedtime story alive, even when she was too sleepy and tired. It could be a 1-minute story and he’d feel better, and lighter.

It was one day when Harry went back home, turmoil evident and clear on his face. She noticed how tense his body was, how he clenched his jaw and saw him rubbing his temple as he took off his cardigan and was proven right when she put her laptop on the couch beside her and Harry took a breath before letting her know what happened;

“Fucking paparazzi. Do they think that’s an actual job?”

That day, he had showered and changed into one of her oversized hoodies (he was sure it used to belong to him) and shorts before joining her in their living room to find a tuna club sandwich waiting for him with a small cup of orange juice, his girlfriend under a blanket which she had retrieved when he was showering.

He told her all about the drama he faced that day over his tuna sandwich, giving her “thank you!”s every single time she agreed with him on how annoying they were.

“I get that people are different and that the economy is shit and everybody’s doing anything to get money but trying to trip me so they could get a photo? Why?” He rhetorically asked, shrugging.

“I agree, like,” her eyebrows furrowed as one of her arms reached out as if she was talking to somebody else but him, “Treat people with kindness, you assholes!”

And then there was a pause before Harry began to giggle, all the way to a loud laugh and struggling to catch his breath. She joined him, choosing to tackle him in a hug, hugging his head close to her chest before kissing his forehead, “Nobody is allowed to make you mad, you hear me, Styles? Now finish up, I think I know what to say tonight.”

She had taken a seat on Harry’s piano right after she uttered her last word, Harry turning his body around as he watched her with excitement and amusement. She cleared her throat, “This next song is dedicated to my mans,” Harry laughed, taking his phone in his hand and recording her as a keepsake, “It’s a song I worked very hard on. Stayed up all day and night.” She played offkey notes on the piano, “Harry, love,” she said slowly as she turned her head around to look at him, laughing when she found him recording her with the biggest grin on his face, “This one is for you.”

He had taught her how to play the Happy Birthday theme song on the piano when she joined him on tour once and began laughing when he heard her playing exactly that but with her own lyrics.

“Y/N makes me good stories, Y/N makes me good stories, Y/N makes me good stories,” she pressed the wrong key, letting out a tiny “oop” before continuing, “And she will make me sleep better toooonight.”

After, what she called a “skit”, they both brushed their teeth, did their night-time skincare routine, and were finally in bed.

Taking their usual position, Harry was on his side, looking at her with one arm draped around her waist. She was on her side, looking at him, one hand playing with his hair.

“Let’s try something different,” she suggested softly. “Close your eyes.”

Harry smiled at her, squinting teasingly which caused her to chuckle softly.

“Close your eyes, you baboon.”

So he did.

“Follow my instructions. Take a deep breath in,” she instructed, watching and hearing him follow her, “And then out. In.” He did as was said, “And out.”

Harry felt like almost sleeping from just how soft and gentle she was being, with the couple of deep breaths that he took, it felt like he could really feel how soothing the setting was; his hair played with, on clean sheets that smelled like the vanilla detergent they both loved mixed with her own scent, her presence beside him. It felt like heaven.

“Have you ever wondered what happens when you sleep?” She rhetorically asked, “Where you go, and what you feel; the places that you seek. When you start to drift away, your mind becomes a book,” she paused, “That writes itself then fades away before you wake to look.”

Harry almost swooned at what she said, embracing the calmness her words, voice, and overall presence radiated.

“Tonight, we’re going to think about anything you’d like.”

His mind instantly flashed to a scene that he had been dreaming and thinking too much about. The beach, him and his Y/N, wet with water and laughing before 3 kids were squealing and running around them. Call him a sap, but he saw a future with her and he loved kids.

“But let’s visualize some scenes. Clear your mind, love.” The hand which played with his hair stopped momentarily before he felt her knuckles softly caressing his temple and down to his cheek, making his reflexively smile which instantly put a smile on her face. “Let’s head to places more celestial.” She whispered.

“Imagine you’re there beneath the stars, which when you pause to think about it, actually, you are.” A sweet, gentle kiss followed her statement on his nose, watching him scrunch it with a wide smile and a hot face with a blush.

“You are, too.” He whispered, inching closer to her.

“Hush.” She said jokingly but blushed, before continuing the story which she had actually been thinking about for a while but saved for the right time.

She went on, describing sceneries for him and watching his lips tug into smiles as he listened to her, his face showing her different emotions despite having his eyes closed.

“Travel with me to moonlit valleys, blanketed with heather, the kind of landscape you and I could dream about forever.”

Harry was sure that if he wasn’t so sleepy, he’d be grabbing his journal to jot down everything she was saying and make it into a song, but he couldn’t cut their moment short. He didn’t have the heart to.

His Y/N continued, letting him relax more and more with every word she said.

He probably smiled the widest and felt like his heart would beat its way out of chest when she spelled out the word “love” to him, pecking different parts on his face with a kiss as she did.

“L,” she pecked his nose, “O,” she pecked one of his eyes and giggled when his face scrunched up in surprise, “V,” she pecked his temple, “E,” she pecked his cheek, “Love.” She kissed him softly and quickly.

And when she told him to think of “the ones he cherishes the most”, Harry couldn’t help but let out a low sigh of contentment as he imagined a garden with his family, friends and in between them, right under a spotlight, stood his Y/N in a flowy white floral dress, smiling so lovingly at him.

That night, Y/N watched Harry’s body get more relaxed by the minute, breath getting steadier until she realized that he had fallen asleep, his arm limp on her waist and his leg draped over hers.

“Goodnight.” She whispered.

He woke up before her the following morning, with a smile that proved that he, in fact, had a good and peaceful night's sleep. When he woke up, he realized that she was spooning him; one of her arms holding him tight, her leg over him, her head leaning against the back of his as he held her hand which was draped on his stomach.

Harry had to pause and reflect. Yesterday’s bedtime stories were probably one of her best and he was sure that if his Y/N decided to take that to the next level and write it down and read it to help ease those with a difficulty sleeping or anxiety, she would be helping out more people than she would imagine.

He stayed in his place for a while, scrolling through his phone and watching the previous night’s video without sound so that he wouldn’t disturb her. He watched how she laughed in that video, how domestically free and shamelessly herself she was, how she effortlessly managed to carry the weight of that day’s burdens off of his shoulders and throw it away.

Y/N woke up not long after and Harry felt it when he heard her let out a groan before she stretched, him instantly turning around to see her. “Good morning, beastie.” He joked as he always did to her in the morning.

“Morning, beauty.” She replied sleepily with a smile. “How was your sleep?”

“I’m certain that you’re a magician, Y/N. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh shoot. Caught.” She teased, wrapping herself around him by climbing and lying on top of him, feeling his arms wrap around her. “But really, how was it?”

“It was amazing. What was that last night?” He asked gently.

“What? You didn’t like it?”

“Like-Y/N, I loved it. That was some therapeutic shit right there.” His chest vibrated with chuckles, “Seriously. I think I want you to record that.”

Her eyebrows rose up and as did her head as she looked at him, “Really?”

“Yes!” He nodded eagerly.

“Wait, I have to show you something now that you mentioned it.” She grinned before climbing off of him and getting out of bed and walking towards her bedside table, mumbling about how she could’ve “shifted closer and gotten it without having to get out of bed.” She opened her drawer, taking out the notebook Mitch had gifted her for some reason last Christmas. It was a medium-sized notebook which had koalas on it with the title being “I’m 100% koalafied to become president!”

She sat beside Harry, who sat up and looked at her with both confusion and excitement as she shuffled through the pages.

“Here,” she stopped at one page, “That’s like, an outline? I don’t know what you call it. But I decided I’d write a bedtime story for you and that’s what I read to you yesterday.” She looked like a kid who had just won first place at a spelling-bee competition as she gave Harry her notebook.

His eyes fell on the title, “Dream with me.” He said softly.

“It’s cliché I know, forget about it.” She said bashfully, waving her hands around.

“No, it’s not,” Harry shook his head, “I did dream with you. Darling, this is incredible.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes!” Harry laughed excitedly, putting the notebook aside, “Write more, will you?” He asked softly as he opened his arms, letting her move to place herself on his lap and wrap her arms around him.

“Don’t treat me as if I’m a professional. You’re overfeeding my ego.” She joked.

“And why not? You are the best bedtime storyteller I have ever seen.” He said lowly.

“You think too highly of me, Harry.”

“Not too high,” He shook his head with a smug smile, “Just enough to appreciate how bloody talented you are.”

And that began a new ritual. It then became usual for Harry to find his girlfriend perched up anywhere, her koala notebook supported on a cushion on her lap as she wrote away stories which she told him every night, deciding on the perfect ones according to different times and moods.

One day, an idea popped in her head.

Due to the pandemic and how they were both staying safe and going out only when absolutely necessary, Y/N knew how chaotic and sad the world was. She knew some chaos needed to happen, knew that some chaos was revolutionary which is why she decided against staying home and silent and was with Harry during the BLM protests, knowing that something had to be done and that something wasn’t to sit and mope.

But everyone deserved the breather. Everyone deserved to let out a breath and to catch a good night's sleep.

It was when she stumbled upon a video on YouTube that was a 39-minute video of just Harry talking with rain in the background and she saw the comments from fans that she gasped and almost sprinted to Harry.

Harry, sitting in his recording and music room, was sat on a chair with his guitar, strumming and humming when his girlfriend barged in and began to ramble. “I’m sorry I didn’t knock but it’s so important! There are so many people we can help, or like, you can, and it’s super easy, you already have the equipment and ev-“

“Y/N!” His eyes widened as he called for her and put his guitar aside, “Honey, calm down. It’s okay. Let’s talk. Come here.” He held his arm out.

She blushed and began laughing quietly at herself as she seated herself on his lap, brushing back her hair. “Sorry, sorry, too excited.”

Harry smiled, “And I absolutely love it but I’m having just a liiittle bit of hard time understanding.”

She laughed before taking a deep breath and straightening her posture, “Alright. You know how awful everything has been? How-How busy and noisy the world has been for a while?” She asked and Harry nodded, “Well do you know that your fans have a video of you on YouTube with many interviews in there because they love your voice? And they added rain and everything, reduced noise.”

“Oh, wow.” He tried to conceal his blush by laughing.

“I know! You know how good your voice is so why don’t you give the world a little something?”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows, “I sing?”

“No, they know that. They have your songs and covers and everything but you talking?” She raised an eyebrow at him with a suggestive smile.

“Baby, I really don’t think I’m getting anything.”

“Read them something! A bedtime story.” She suggested with an excited smile and a gleeful tone.

“Like you do to me?” He asked, wanting to understand better.

“Yeah, exactly like that. You can upload it on your website or see if any app is willing to partner, whatever you want.”

“Do you think people would like that?” Harry asked again, wrapping his arms tighter around her to bring her closer as he looked up at her.

Y/N smiled and gently cupped his face, “They’ll absolutely adore it.”

Harry hummed, in thought. “Yeah well, I can’t do that on my own.”

She nodded, “You have connections. Jeff has connections, you can find a part-“

“No, love, I mean I can’t do it without you.” He grinned up at her, watching as her face then showed confusion, “Not without your beautiful, absolutely wonderful stories.”

Her eyes widened, her head tilted. “What? No. These are for you. Told you I’m no professional, Harry. I’m sure there are faaar better people.”

Harry rolled his eyes, “Nonsense. We do this together or we let people have trouble sleeping.”

“You manipulative piece of shit.” She shook her head with a smile, leaning her head back, Harry chuckling.

“Dream with me.” He said after a moment, “I can read Dream With Me.”

She looked at him for a moment, her smile widening before she nodded, leaning down to capture his lips in a kiss. “I love you.”

Remember what I said about the indescribable feeling he got when she said those three words? It was there.

And she felt it, too, when he replied with a promise of his – “I love you, too. So much.”

---

Harry had contacted Jeff, who had contacted some people before finally landing on a partnership with Calm. There were two conditions in this work;

Harry would record from his home.

He would be reading his girlfriend’s story.

Now imagine owning a company of that sort as Calm and having Harry Styles contact you with these two conditions. Yes.

It took a couple of days. In the comfort of their own home, Harry and Y/N had him record then they would tweak some stuff then they would listen and try again. They were aware that music would be added, and Y/N was way too excited to listen to the final product.

In his denim hat, black t-shirt, striped cream-colored pants, using his Vans as slippers – which Y/N always cringed at and told him that it would ruin his shoes – and the script in his hand, Y/N stood on the side, admiring. He had allowed his scruff to grow, which she definitely wasn’t complaining about. A bracelet she made him when they were only friends years ago on his wrist, its colors washed out from when he’d shower or swim with it. Headphones were on his head, but she knew he could hear her if she said anything.

When she took her phone out to take a picture, Harry’s eyes moved to her before moving back to the script with a smile.

“Maybe all the memories that we’ve gathered here tonight are all dreams now remembered or wishes in plain sight. No matter what, they’re with us now, for this night and forever. And every time we close our eyes, they’re yours and mine to treasure. Goodnight, and sleep well.”

Harry then turned to look at her, eyes gleaming with happiness and calmness, as her hands were clutched together against her chest, watching and listening.

“I love you.” He added.

913,746 likes.

yourinstagram: Goodnight❤

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Murder, He Wrote

Co-written with @southerngracela

Part 1 

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.

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.”

"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.

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 

“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."

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.”

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. 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. 

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 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.

“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 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.

**** WIYPT Tag List:

Everything

@momobaby227 @marvelfansworld @cobalt-gear @djeniiscorner @ayamenimthiriel @coldmuffinbanditshoe @nerdofthefandoms @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @southerngracela @goldenfightergir @kellymat @what-just-happened-bro @jennmurawski13 @joannaliceevans-fanficblog @jtargaryen18 @redhairedfeistynerd @charmed-asylum @saiyanprincessswanie @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @jhayes6984 @anika-ann @icanfeelastormbrewing @gigglegirl77 @princess-evans-addict @mes-2016 @theladybiers @void-hoechlin 

Ransom Drysdale

@patzammit @icandothisallday @capsiclewinter​ @this-is-serenaa​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @perplexed3001​ @twittytelly​ @kelbabyblue​ @maan24​

If your name appears above but the tag isn’t live please let me know.

[eagle-feather-2014]

BLM/BNHA: “True Heroes”

A hero is tasked with protecting the public from threats that they are no match for. They uphold the peace and enforce the laws that govern the land so that order was maintained, and when the air filled with tear gas, all bets were off.

Sometimes, peace is met with violence, and when that violence is sanctioned by the government, well… a hero has to stand for justice, and class 1-A were heroes that wouldn’t stand by just because the very people who paid their salary were the ones playing the role of the villain. The front lines of protests changed after the first instance of lethal force being authorized occurred. Pro-heroes began to publicly attend protests in full gear and stand at the front line of the crowd, right between the civilians and the police. If lethal force would be authorized, well, they’d have to get through them before they could touch the citizens, and what could police without quirk authorization do to the kids that took down national criminal organizations and the League of Villains?

No large protest took place without at least three 1-A students present. They insisted that the protesters stay calm and peaceful, and in return, the heroes would ensure that no one got hurt or arrested. They made grand statements, blocking roads and highways, surrounding buildings like the police stations and city halls of the places the protests took place. The world began to take notice as word spread that Pro-heroes were refusing orders to stand down when police tried to dispatch crowds with force.

Interviews with heroes like Deku, Ground Zero, Shouto, and Red Riot make a clear, cohesive statement that the protesters were fighting a legitimate battle in a way that they had every right to do, and that the heroes were there to keep peaceful protests from becoming a scene of police brutality to quiet a dissenting opinion.

“You can’t uphold a system of systemic racism and abuse and expect people to not want things to change. You also can’t punish them for using their Constitutional rights to peaceful protest because they are drawing attention to a failure in the system.” The world clung to what Deku said on live national news as the rallying cry for more people to get involved. The heroes were protecting them if they were using their rights properly. He was recorded to be at many events, passing out water and bandanas to those needing them, and helping to make signs from old cardboard and permanent markers. Many pictures showed him holding back riot gear police from the crowds, insisting that they stop following orders and instead use their humanity.

“It’s bullshit! The fact that violence has been authorized against these people by the government is all a bullshit political move! Fuck re-election! People are being hurt! If they fire me for refusing orders and throwing tear gas canisters back at them, then they can all just die and go to hell!” Social media blew up, echoing the sentiment Ground Zero offered a news team after an incident where he took a rubber bullet to the brow and had an eye swollen shut for days. His statement, bruised eye and all, became evidence that the police were mistreating the people the heroes were protecting. The Internet flooded with videos taken by protesters of Ground Zero bare handed picking up tear gas canisters and blasting them to pieces with his quirk or otherwise lobbing them back at the police who had fired them in the first place, screaming that they “picked the wrong fight, assholes.”

“No one deserves the mistreatment that the African Americans have faced. There is a reason people are here, and that reason is that they see people being treated differently in the modern world. Everyone here cares that people are being hurt, arrested, and killed because of the color of their skin. They want the injustice to stop. This isn’t about one person like the media tries to say it is, but rather about a people struggling to survive against hate.” The leaders of the Black Lives Matter movement chose Red Riot to be their hero advocate voice, because he understood their beliefs and had been at their sides before any other hero had. Video after video depicted him at the front of crowds, black paint smeared across his face and carrying a sign with the symbol of the movement on it proudly, leading the crowd in chants and being a human shield against rubber bullets. Media tried to play on the irony that the hero Red Riot was leading “peaceful protests” in order to try to turn away their support, but evidence that Shouto and Hagakure managed to compile of the truth of the police staging and anarchists and looters being unrelated to the movement was a good way to gut the argument.

“I have resources, and not a lot of protesters do, so I’ve been working to help fund programs and gather evidence of the underhanded tactics that the police, government, and media are using to damage this movement’s very real credibility. The amount of cherry picking, undercover cops, and government corruption is appalling, and I want it on every news station that is willing to air the truth. People need to know that they are being lied to about these protests,” Shouto explained in an interview, boosting public interest in the findings that he was publishing. Whole websites popped up to add to the evidence, listing people’s experiences, and to provide video and document proof to the general public for free.

Their efforts made it so no one could ignore what was happening. They risked their health and jobs to stand in defense of the protesters as the government tried to silence the whistleblowing of the corruption and systemic racism that was inherent in the procedures and trainings that were widespread. Their chants were echoed around the world by online supporters, and funds began to pour into the charities aiding the protests. Supplies were donated to help the cause, and the very fact that the world was watching and listening put pressure on the government that had been authorizing lethal force. No one could deny the images and videos of the Pro-heroes being injured and wounded in trying to protect innocents practicing their rights. They couldn’t deny the fact that Pro-heroes were being hit with rubber bullets until black and blue in order to keep children from being hit. They used their quirks only when violence broke out, and only until the police conceded to no longer using force.

The police were no match for the few Pro-heroes at each event. They could try to use lethal force to dispatch the crowd, but with Pro-heroes between them and the crowd, authorized to use their quirks to protect civilians, they never got to the crowd before being forced to call off the attack or leave. Protester injuries dropped, and the movement was being forced to be taken seriously, even as the government tried stripping titles from the kids. Even without their Pro-hero status, they didn’t stop supporting the movement or protecting people at the events when police tried to hurt people to scare them off.

They would bring supplies like shin guards and goggles to pass out, and they would rob police of riot shields and redistribute them to those civilians being attacked. The world watched on the edge of their seats as the movement only grew louder and louder as Pro-heroes stood behind them against every injustice and every attempt to make them stop. They weren’t going to stop as long as people were being hurt and injustice remained. It was their duty to protect people from threats, with or without the license, and that was just what they would do. They would go beyond plus ultra to make a difference, and this was where they were making their stand.

So, throw the tear gas, it’ll be thrown back. So, bring riot shields, they’ll be taken for protecting the vulnerable. So, strip their ranks, they’ll still be standing there between both sides. So, fire rubber bullets, they’ll wear black and blue with pride. So, do whatever you want, but know that they won’t be backing down until real change hits, because a real hero protects people now and in the future.

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