#marta x reader x benoit

[marvelsgirl616]

[ 🎬 ]: knives out (2019): I love this movie sm. 😭

[bonkwosher]

Benoit Blanc x Assistant!Reader ~ Reader Gets Hurt

GIF by: h-yuki

Warnings: Blood, Gun, Reader is shot

A/N: I'm still new to writing in third person but thought I'd give it a shot.

The one moment he stepped away from you. Benoit walked across the room to grab some evidence that sat on the table during his big rant about how the suspect was truly the killer.

"& if you look here, Tropper Wagner, this piece-"

A click makes Benoit freeze, he knew that click from the many times he'd been in proximity of cops & a dangerous suspect. It was the cocking of a gun. The fear was not as much for himself as it was for you, alone on the other side of the room, next to the killer.

"It would be best if you stopped talking, Mr. Blanc," Johnathan, the suspect, spoke with a smirk.

Benoit raised his hands above his head & turned to see the gun that rested in Johnathan's hand was pointed at him. A mental sigh went through his mind as he realized you were safe. Yeah, you were supposed to be just an assistant but he had already grown to have feelings for you.

"Now, Johnathan. I don't think you really want this, there's two officers behind me. You can't kill all three of us before one of them kills you."

You eyed the gun quietly, thinking Benoit was making a distraction so you could jump the man. Little did you know, that was the last thing he wanted you to do.

"I've killed four people already, what's three more?" Johnathan spoke before turning to you, "Don't think I've forgotten about you either, sweetheart."

Benoit took a step forward & was met with the gun racing back to face him. He was not going to be able to do anything. As Johnathan ranted about how he killed his previous victims, affirming everything you & Blanc had uncovered, you took a step behind him. He didn't notice. Another step. He continued ranting. Benoit didn't bother to glance at you, afraid it would get you caught, only acknowledging you in his peripheral vision.

'Please don't, Y/N,' Benoit pleaded in his mind.

You lunged at Johnathan & pushed the gun to the ground, a bullet pierced the floor as the trigger was pulled. You had successfully caught him off guard. You tackled Johnathan to the floor, landing on top of him & struggling to hold the firearm down. Benoit wanted to run to you but Trooper Wagner was holding him back to keep him out of shooting range.

"Let me go- I need to help him!"

"Benoit, you can't. Johnathan could break free & shoot you!"

"What about Y/N?!"

At that moment a couple shots fired going into the wall behind you. You slammed your fist down onto Johnathan's wrist & he yelled in pain, letting go of the gun. You slide it across the room & turned to the officers that were holding Benoit back, "Lieutenant, I need some handcuffs over here!"

Lieutenant Elliot ran to you & restrained Johnathan. You stood up, proud of yourself for protecting everyone & walking up to Benoit. He grabbed your arms tightly & you could see pure fear in his eyes.

"Are you hurt? I can't believe you did that, I would never insult you but that action was incredibly stupid!"

The rambling felt distant & you sort of mindlessly stared at Benoit's coat. You noticed him looking down then back up at you before feeling really dizzy. Within seconds your legs felt weak & you fell into Benoit's arms.

"Oh lord. Stay with me, Y/N. Trooper Wagner, Y/N was shot get a first aid kit now!"

Trooper Wagner darted out of the room & Benoit pulled you down to the floor with him. His hand quickly moved to your hip, covering a bullet wound you must have missed in the heat of the moment. As Benoit applied pressure to the wound, you finally felt the pain. Benoit shushed you quietly as you winced & apologized over & over. Trooper Wagner returned with the first aid kit & help Benoit pull out the bandages.

"Call an ambulance & get the suspect in custody with Elliot, I'll take care of Y/N," Benoit attempted to sound calm in effort to not scare you with his own fear.

As soon as Trooper Wagner, Elliot, & Johnathan left the room his hands became a little shakey. He lifted your shirt & replaced his hand with a bandage & applied one to the exit wound before wrapping your stomach with bandage wrap.

"Are you feeling alright? I shouldn't have let you do that, I shouldn't have let you come here. I just-"

"Benoit, it's okay. I chose to protect you."

"I'm thankful for that but I didn't want you to get hurt. This is my fault for-"

You grabbed Benoit's tie pulling him down to your level. You stopped when your noses were about to touch. Benoit let out a shakey, heavy sigh.

"Y/N, I- Do you-"

"Yes."

Benoit placed his hand on the small of your back & pulled you up to meet his lips. Sirens could now be heard getting close outside. Benoit now knew you'd be safe & his hands began to shake less. From this day forward, though, you will be babied so much more on cases.

Bonus:

Benoit walked out of the hospital room to see Trooper Wagner & Lieutenant Elliot waiting to hear if you were okay.

"Y/N's fine, I hate this stupid state."

"What?" Trooper Wagner asked, 'get well soon' flowers in hand.

"First Ransom almost kills Marta, now this? I swear I'm never coming back here."

[iwriteweightgainbullshit]

Ya'll if I wrote some shit about chubby benoit blanc would you guys read it? Or am I like the only one being into this? Also I'm thinking of adding a second blog for poems and shit but I'm not sure yet.

[fandom-go-round]

Will you make a another part of the knives out soul mate au please?

I’m counting this as my piece this month too because this is what I was going to do even if it didn’t get asked. Not a lot of Benoit in this part either, sorry my friends. My heart needs Marta to be loved and respected first. I’m thinking this might be my ‘long story’ as I update month to month…

Look later this week for the new April update and maybe something else!

           The drive to Harlan’s house is long and winding; he was dramatic but you couldn’t hate it. He was a good man and you had met him more than once when Marta was taking care of him. Harlan had been insistent on meeting you once he found out Marta had a soulmate and you got along well enough to be invited back. You think partly it was so you would tease Marta for him but it was harmless and even you could tell that the two of them loved each other.

           It was difficult to talk to Marta about his death. She was upset and devastated but this underlying thread of guilt just wouldn’t go away. You tried to talk to her about it but she shied away and once even snapped at you. You could feel her emotions rocking back and forth like a wave but you let her be, hoping that she would talk to you eventually.

           She calls you in tears almost every day of the investigation. She doesn’t go into details but you know its hard for her so you do your best to distract her. You tell her about your day and what you got done. It’s never anything exiting but it seems to calm her down so you don’t stop. The night before the will reading she sounds tired and resigned, leaning her head against her wall as she speaks to you.

           “I’m so tired of this. Tomorrow I’m going to say everything.”

           “What haven’t you said yet Marta?” Your confusion is genuine but it just seems to upset her more. She starts crying and you drop it, offering comfort instead. You can feel the stress on your bond, the way it stretches and strains. You don’t mention that either, feeling like some sort of bomb is going to be dropped.

           The driveway in front of the house is in chaos when you get there. There are two police cars with lights flashing and you stop when they tell you to. Marta comes out of the house as they question you, quickly walking over to the car.

           “They’re with me! I called them.” The officers nod and move so you can drive in. You offer Marta a smile and she gives a weak one back, going to the door. There’s a man in a suit there, eyes moving between you and Marta. He’s well dressed with graying hair and a tie, at least in his 40s. You park and just watch them for a moment, seeing them bend close to talk. They dance around the fact they want to touch each other, leaning in close but never quite touching. Marta’s hand is dyed an emerald green and you see his hand is covered in burnt orange. You feel your own mark burn and you shake it off; you and Marta had been like that too when you first touched.

           They both turn when you get out of the car, keys in one hand and donuts in the other. The man, Benoit your mind supplies, quickly comes down the steps to take the bags for you.  

           “Please, let me take those.” His voice is strong and has a thick Southern accent, surprising you. You don’t get a chance to argue before he takes them and sweeps into the house. Marta watches him go with a smile and you pause at the bottom of the stairs to look up at her. She hasn’t been sleeping and you can tell that she’s been crying but she’s beautiful, standing strong and steady.

           “Hey.” You keep your voice low so you don’t startle her. The smile she gives you is shy and small, like the first time you met.

           “Hey. Thank you for coming.” You give her a crooked smile back, trying to keep lighthearted.

           “You know I’d never miss drama at Harlan’s house.” Her smile grows, just a bit, as she gestures to the house behind her.

           “My house.” You freeze halfway up the steps, looking at her with wide eyes.

           “Your house?” Marta laughs, her voice lighter than you’ve heard it in days.

           “My house. And my yard. And my books.” You whistle, standing in the doorway and looking into the house.

           “He loved you.” You can feel the burn of loss in Marta’s veins but her smile is like the sun.

           “Yes he did. And I loved him.” You nod, giving her a smile back.

           “Come on, gotta introduce me to your boy toy.” She gasps, smacking your shoulder and immediately starts to scold you.

           “He is not my boy toy! He is a respected detective.”

           “A respected detective who’s going to eat all your sweets.” She laughs again, leaning up to kiss your cheek. Your face must have shown your surprise because she gives a sad smile before wrapping her arms around you. You fall into her arms faster than you would admit, soaking in her warmth and the smell of her skin. Love echoes back and forth through your bond and for the first time in weeks you feel the stress start to leave your body. Marta pulls back first, linking your arms together and gently moving you down the hall.

           “Come on, I need to tell you everything.” You nod, not hesitating to step after her.

           “I’m not going anywhere.” She gives another blinding smile, squeezing your hand as you address her unspoken fear.

           “I know.”

[jjsmaybank20]

2𝕄𝕚𝕤𝕔. 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥

✰ - Personal Favorite ✎ - Most inspired for rn

The Fallout (2022)

Vada Cavell ✎

nothing yet

Mia Reed

1. Anxiety [angst, fluff]

Glee (2009-2015)

Santana Lopez

1. My Defender [fluff, smut] 18+ MINORS DNI

Kitty Wilde

1. Secret Love Song [angst, fluff]

Finn Hudson (Platonic Only)

1. Ghosts [angst]

Knives Out (2019) + Glass Onion (2022)

Whiskey

nothing yet

1. Speechless [fluff] ✰

Marta Cabrera

nothing yet

1. Always and Forever [fluff]

Benoit Blanc (Platonic Only)

nothing yet

Ted Lasso (2020-2023)

Rebecca Welton

Oh, Bartender! [smut, fluff] 18+ MINORS DNI

[bishopgirl98]

Knives Out Master List

Ransom Drysdale

Marta Cabrera (COMING SOON)

Detective Benoit Blanc (COMING SOON)

[meobsessions]

Recently I started working on a new story called The Red Dime, based on the movie Knives Out. It’s a Benoit Blanc x reader story, and I would love it if you checked it out!

[accioscarheadthings]

𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 ❘ ʀᴀɴsᴏᴍ ᴅʀʏsᴅᴀʟᴇ x ғᴇᴍ﹗ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

PROMPT LIST ❘❘ RANSOM DRYSDALE MASTERLIST

Pairings: Ransom Drysdale x fem!reader

Warning: Smut, Fingering, Slight choking kink, Daddy kink, Bathroom sex, Rough!sex, P in V, Pet names (kitten, sweetheart, baby), Unprotected sex (but birth control is in use), Slight dumbification kink, Overstimulation, Groping, Dirty talking, Praise kink.

MINORS DNI❌ 18+ only🔞

Summary: You are a private detective, daughter of Benoit Blanc. After inquiring the Thrombey’s about Harlan’s death, you head to the bar to get a drink, already sick of them. Ransom Drysdale, your one night stand, offers to distract you and help you relax.

After dropping Marta in her house, you asked Ransom to drop you back at the bar. He suggested that he'd drop you at your house, but you declined, saying that you needed a drink after a long tiring day.

Now, seated on the stool of the bar, you had your 4th shot of vodka when you noticed Ransom approach you.

You kept an eye on him through your peripheral vision, tilting your head back to down the fifth shot.

"So, Blanc," Ransom addressed you, leaning on his side on the bar after he ordered his drink.

"I'm not in the mood to deal with you," you shut him down, glancing at him with a sarcastic kind expression.

Ransom was an asshole with enough snarky remarks that would make any sane person shoot themselves.

You knew he wasn't a fan of yours, which was only good news for you; you hated him, too. Although the tension from your one-night stand somehow still lingered between you two, much to your dismay.

"What if I could distract you from your failure of a life?" Ransom offered.

"You're off to a great start then," you remarked bitterly.

That was one of the reasons you had your one-night stand with him the first time. You were feeling down and were in a dire need of distraction. Anything to take your mind off of your messy life.

You felt low and pathetic compared to your best friend, Marta. You were a nursing school dropout turned private detective. You often felt bad that you hadn't accomplished much.

"Come on, I'm being serious," Ransom stated.

You rolled your eyes with a scoff, but then your eyes widened when Ransom pulled you towards him by the leg of your barstool.

"If you want," he slowly nudged your knees apart, moving to stand between them, "We can forget about everything for a few hours," he leaned closer in such a way that you felt his breath on your cheek, "And we can end this night the right way," you shivered slightly when he traced a hand up your thigh, grazing back to squeeze your knee, all the while keeping eye contact with you.

You looked over your options again. You are a private investigator. You have no kind of moral obligation to the government or the FBI like Wagner and Elliot. But it is considered unethical and frowned upon when detectives get involved with their clients/suspects.

Again, you had no moral obligation to the government whatsoever. You can do as you please.

The case of Harlan's death had already worn you out, not to mention the attitude and arrogance of the Thrombeys'.

You weren't too drunk. You were sober enough to walk without wobbling and talk without slurring. A couple of hours wouldn't do much harm.

☆═━┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈━═☆

Pinning you against the wall of the bathroom, Ransom was kissing you like a starved man. His lips nipped your upper and bottom lips in turns, slipping his tongue in your mouth, and searching for yours.

He let out a muffled groan when he tasted vodka on your tongue and sucked languidly; his knees nudging your legs apart,

His palm roamed all over you and touched every inch of your body as he hooked his hands onto the back of your knees, hiking up your legs around his torso.

Your legs automatically wound around him. Ransom rubbed his clothed crotch against yours, the tight material of his pants providing the friction you needed.

"You want this, right?" Ransom pulled back to question, eyes locking with your heterochromatic ones.

"Yeah," you panted, trying to catch your breath, "But what if somebody comes in here?"

"They won't," he assured, "I paid the bartender to keep this shut as long as we are in here," His kisses just kept coming one after another, leaving you barely a second to catch your breath between them, "It's just you and me, sweetheart,"

Growing impatient, Ransom tugged your pants down, letting them pool at your ankles. He slipped his hand into your panties, groaning at the feeling of your arousal, "So wet,"  he muttered lowly as his pupils dilated in lust, "All this for me?" his fingers grazed your wet folds.

You threw your head back at the feeling, "All for you,"

You bit down on your lip to hold back the moans as he began to rub you through your underwear, the material of the panties giving just the amount of roughness needed.

Puckering his lips, Ransom sucked a hickey on your neck as he continued to rub you through your underwear.

The room was filled with the sounds of your sighs and breaths along with Ransom's praises as he muttered them into your ear.

You felt your orgasm build up as a coil tightened within your lower abdomen, "—So close"

Ransom sped up his actions, pushing you over the edge. A wave of pleasure washed over you as your first orgasm rippled through you.

One

Ransom pushed your soaking underwear down, letting it join your pants which were already on the floor, and helped you step out of it.

As you tried to catch your breath, Ransom inserted a finger into your warm wet pussy, pushing you further into the wall behind to hold you in place.

You gasped at this, eyes snapping open, "Ransom—" you weren't opposing, you were just caught off guard since he didn't give you time to recover.

"Shh," he smothered your dirty sounds with his mouth, kissing you passionately.

It was all tongue and teeth, clashing with each other, mainly driven by lust as you both fought for dominance sloppily.

Your mouth fell open when his other hand groped one of your breasts, thumb rubbing over your nipple through your clothes, feeling it pebble under his touch.

Feeling his cock strain against your thigh, leaking and wet with precum, you reached to unbuckle his belt.

But then you felt his free hand wrapped around your throat and he tipped your head back to lock eyes with you.

His grasp around your neck wasn't enough to suffocate, but just enough to hold you in place. The thick metal ring on one of his fingers only added to the pleasure as it gave a cooling effect against your flaming skin.

With one of his hands half-buried in your pussy, he pressed a kiss to your lips, "Let daddy take care of you, sweetheart," he leaned forward to graze his nose against your jaw as your heavy breaths hit his cheek, "Just be good for me,"

You sucked a shaky breath when he added another finger into your pussy, twisting at an excruciatingly slow pace as his calloused thumb pressed over your clit. A spark of elation spread throughout your body.

"Can you do that for me?" he lowered his voice to several octaves. He let go of your neck and reached behind you to unclasp your bra.

When you didn't answer him, he jerked his fingers forward that were snug in your pussy to get your attention.

You let out a moan when his fingers dragged down your wet walls, squeezing your eyes shut, "Fuck, yes,"

"Yes what?" he prodded, curling his fingers in punctuation.

"Yes, daddy,"

"That's my girl," he commenced to pump his fingers in you, groping the side of one of your thighs, "Only mine," Ransom added a third finger as he scissored you open. He pressed his mouth against yours to muffle the moans that escaped your throat and claimed it as his own.

"Fuck, just like that," you leaned back against the cool tile of the bathroom, becoming putty in his hands. You were surprised that he still remembered how to make you tick and writhe under his touch. He knew just how to please you.

Ransom helped you shimmy out of the black button-up top you were wearing. He snatched the bra forward with two of his fingers, letting it fall down.

Cool air hit your nipples, making them perk up. He took one of your nipples in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip.

The combined effect of Ransom's mouth on your breast and three fingers pumping in and out of you caused another wave of pleasure to wash over you.

Two

Pulling his fingers out of you, he sucked them clean as he held eye contact with you.

Ransom unbuckled his belt and slipped his pant down his thick legs, and was quick to pull you closer towards him, pressing his mouth against your own.

"Missed your body—," Ransom panted into your mouth, his hands roaming every curve of your body as he recalled every inch of your skin, "—Missed this so fucking much,"

"Missed you too," you stuffed your hand into his boxers, wrapping your fingers around his hard cock.

Ransom panted as you pulled him, gripping his hips. You guided his cock to your entrance and he began to enter you slowly, giving you time to adjust. You whined as you felt your walls stretching to fit his size. Every ridge and very vein stretched you open like never before. It was almost as though you were fucking him on your one-night-stand all over again.

"So tight, baby—" Ransom buried his face in your neck, "—can feel you squeezing me, fuck," he began to increase his pace, slamming his hips faster into yours.

It was becoming more difficult to hide your moans as he impaled you with his cock. A needy whine escaped your lips.

"Keep quiet, kitten," Ransom growled, hand snaking around your form  to grip your ass in warning, "You don't wanna get caught, do you?" he  gnawed at the sweaty skin of your collarbone, licking the pain away with  a pleased hum.

"No," you shook your head. The last thing you wanted was the word that you fucked Ransom into a public restroom while the case of Harlan Thrombey is yet to be solved.

You and Ransom let out a filthy groan when he bottomed out, his hands guiding your hips down to his, "Such a good girl — taking all of my cock," he breathed into your ear.

"Fuck," you cursed, feeling a coil tighten within you yet again, "Don't stop, please," you knew Ransom was one to tease you and edge you. And you were so overcome by the pleasure that you didn't want to ruin it by any of his arrogant tactics.

Ransom let out a guttural moan when your pussy clenched around him, "Fuck—" he felt you run your hands through his hair, tugging you further, "I'm 'bout to cum. You on birth control?" he asked.

"Yeah," you responded, hands slipping under his sweater to mark his skin.

Ransom thrust his hips into yours particularly harshly, the tip of his cock grazing that soft spot in you, "Good girl,"

"I think I—" you were unable to complete your sentence as you felt yourself get closer and closer to the edge.

"I know," Ransom spoke, stuttering his pace when you gripped him again, "I got you," he fondled one of your breasts, tweezing your nipple slightly.

You came with a high-pitched moan, creaming all over his cock while Ransom followed right after you, cumming deep inside of you.

Three

Even after your third orgasm, Ransom didn't slow down and continued to fuck you relentlessly, not decreasing his pace once.

"Ransom, I can't—I—" you were a blubbering mess at this point as he pushed you further into your fourth orgasm. A dim pain began to spread up your body from your abdomen.

"I know you can, kitten, just one more," Ransom caught both of your wrists and held them over your head against the wall. He nuzzled against your cheek, "Just one more," he placed a kiss right on the sweet spot under your ear.

"'S too much," you nearly cried as the orgasms only became more intense one after the other.

"Be a good girl for daddy," he cooed, coaxing you smoothly, his hips rutting into yours non-stop with a fixed fast pace, "Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my cock,"

With his praises and thick cock ramming into you, one last strong wave of pleasure hit you and you came hard, your voice muffled as you bit into Ransom's broad shoulder.

Four

Both of you panted as you came down, his forehead leaning on yours.

Riding you out of your orgasm, he leaned in, kissing you gently as he began to lower you to your feet. You wound your arms around his neck, passion filling your kiss as your tongues met.

Pulling back, you arched an eyebrow at him, "You swear you'll keep your mouth shut about this?" you questioned breathlessly.

Ransom cupped one of your breasts in his palm, tracing your nipple with his thumb and leaving goosebumps in the wake, "Only if you do," his own eyes were glazed over with pleasure.

"I won't—" you tried to stand, but you felt your legs give out and your knees bucked, causing you to fall. But Ransom was quicker and caught you swiftly, holding you against the wall behind.

"It'll be our little secret," Ransom wrapped his arms around your hips and lifted up slightly, pulling your sensitive pussy against his semi-hard cock; the tip of his cock grazing your oversensitive clit.

You whimpered at the contact, "Our little secret," you repeated his words, barely able to comprehend your surroundings.

Ransom brushed your sweaty hair aside as he took in your afterglow state, mesmerized by your heterochromatic eyes, "Such a good girl for me," he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to one of your breasts, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, "You're so pretty when you cum for me, kitten,"

You found yourself speechless from his words and your fingers tangled themselves in his hair; nails scratching into his scalp deliciously as he groaned into your breast.

He spread your pussylips with his cock, and entered you again in one smooth movement without any warning.

You let out a wanton moan at his movement, swallowing dryly, "Ransom, I can't anymore— please—"

Your pussy sucked his cock right back in as it throbbed with need. A spurt of pain spread up from your lower abdomen towards your thighs. You knew you'd  be facing the consequences of it tomorrow.

"'S okay, darling. Just keep my cock warm for me," Ransom began pressing kisses all over your face, praising how good you were a 'good girl' for him. He lifted a leg and held it against the side of his body, drilling his thick cock into you.

"So, you want to stay here ?" he caught your lower lips and tugged back with his teeth as he spoke, thrusting his hips into yours so that he bottomed out under you and had you pinned against the wall behind with his body weight, "Or do you wanna go to my place ?"

You blinked at him as you thought for a moment, "Your place?" grunting slightly with a wince when he rammed into you.

Ransom nodded, placing a kiss on your arm that was draped over his shoulder, "I'll let you ride my cock like last time," he pulled his hips back and rammed his thick cock right into you; the memory of you being on top of him when you both hooked up the first time flashed before your eyes.

"And then I'd love to clean up your pretty little cunt with my tongue," he licked a hot stripe up the side of your neck in punctuation, tracing a couple of hickeys with the tip of his tongue.

Your eyes rolled to the back and you let out a weak whimper at his words; feeling his cock fill you perfectly as he stilled his actions.

Ransom cupped your ass and nudged further into you, pulling up your legs on either side of his body to get deeper inside, "But only after I fuck you so dumb that you won't be able to walk tomorrow,"

☆═━┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈━═☆

[missuhmisery]

♬♩♪♩ WHO I WRITE FOR ♩♪♩♬

/p indicates i will only write platonic for that character.

i will write x reader as well as cannon and non cannon ships with some exceptions.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Knives Out -

Meg Thrombey, Marta Cabrera, Harlan Thrombey /p, Benoit Blanc /p (maybe romantic for a masc!reader), Jacob Thrombey, Miles Bron, Cassandra Brand, Helen Brand, Whiskey, Peg.

(might end up adding Ransom but i really hate him LOL)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Baby Driver -

Baby (miles), Debora, Darling.

(open to adding more characters but no Doc whatsoever.)

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

⟵ ⟶

[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

[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.

[rachaelswrites]

Investigation

Part Four

Ransom Drysdale x daughter!reader

“I don’t know. We have to go back to Harlan’s. They’re gonna get her confession and we get our part of the will,” he brushed some hair out of your face, “Y/n everything’s fine. Don’t worry,” 

The family was waiting for Marta in the lounge. Everyone was talking about what they were going to do with their cut but not you. Something didn’t feel right about all of this. There was too much that wasn’t adding up. Your dad was being suspicious. He was hiding things from you and leaving at weird hours. Not to mention the letter and newspaper article. 

Marta and Benoit walked into the room. Marta started talking but you were more focused on Benoit in the background. He unfolded a piece of paper and grabbed his glasses. He read it and he immediately looked at you, then Ransom, then Marta. You stood up a little straighter. Something was about to happen. 

“You have not been kind to her. You’ve all treated her like shit,” Benoit grabbed onto Marta’s shoulder, “I am declaring this a suicide,”

“What!” your dad yelled. 

Benoit ignored him and pulled Marta out of the room and into the library. You left your dad’s side and ran after them. Elliot and Wagner weren’t too far behind.

“Mr. Benoit what’s going on?” 

“What are you doing man?” Elliot asked. 

“Trooper Wagner. I need you to get the family out of the house. Except one, come here,”

Wagner walked up to him and Benoit whispered in his ear. He briefly looked and pointed at you. Wagner nodded and glanced at you quickly before leaving the room. 

“What’s going on?” Marta asked. She was just as confused as you,“Blanc, I told you and Ransom told you that I killed Harlan!”

You weren’t expecting that. You tried to piece everything together but something felt off. There was something missing, “But wait, that doe-”

Blanc cut you off, “Yes you did, yes he did. But you remember that donut hole I spoke about in the car? Everything seemed to fit but we have to look closer. Our donut is not whole at all.” Benoit saw your confused face, “Right, I haven’t had time to explain this to you yet,”

You listened intently as he quickly brought you up to speed. He told you about the fire at the lab, Fran being found in that building, and Marta’s confession. 

“Look Blanc, I get that this is amusing for you and all bu-” Elliot started but was interrupted. 

“Why was I hired? Why would someone hire me?” Benoit asked. 

“Someone wanted to change the will,” Elliot responded back. 

“No, he was hired before the will was read,” you said. 

Blanc pointed at you, “Right,” he then pointed at Elliot, “So yes, someone had to know what was in the will before it was read and knew that a crime was committed,” he was pacing around the room, “Further, that person had to know that Marta was responsible,”

“Because they wanted to reverse her inheritance,” you finished for him. You remembered the family talking about that the night before. You didn’t know who in the family Harlan would’ve told about the will. All your dad knew was you and him were excluded, not the whole family, “But why didn’t anyone speak up?”

“They couldn’t reveal how they knew,” Blanc explained. You turned to Marta and could tell something was going through her head. 

“Fran! She was blackmailing me. She knew,”

“But she wanted money, not the crime to be exposed,” 

“What about someone in the family? What if one of them saw Marta doing something suspicious?” Elliot asked.

“But they would have no reason to not speak up,” Benoit walked to one of the chairs and scratched the back of his head, “The answer is not simple so, bear with me please,” he sat down and faced you, “It won’t be easy for you to hear this, especially you Y/n. But there is one guilty party behind this all,”

Trooper Wagner walked into the room, leading your dad back into the room, “Marta, I’m sorry, I told them everything,” he glanced over at you, “I'm sorry you got dragged into all this Y/n,” 

Wagner let go of him and he walked over to you, pulling you into a hug. Marta stood up and walked over to the two of you, “I’m glad you told them,” she said. 

“Well,” Benoit said, standing up and heading towards all three of you, “Not everything,”

“What does he mean dad?” you looked up at him waiting for his response but Marta intervened. 

“Is this about what Great Nana told you? She saw me that night,”

“We’ll get back to that part. But first, Hugh Ransom Drysdale, would you mind telling us all why you hired me?”

“Why I hired you?” Your dad asked, confused. You looked up at him, this small piece of the puzzle fitting in perfectly. 

“Is that why you were asking me about the article? Because you knew about this?” you unconsciously took a step back from him. You didn’t want to believe that you dad was capable of anything that happened. Your breathing started to get heavy as all those thoughts poured into your head. 

“Y/n calm down,” Ransom reached his hand out for you, hoping you would take it so he could get you calm, “Stop it,” he said more sternly. 

“Why don’t we get her out of the room,” Blanc whispered to Wagner, who nodded and started walking towards you. 

“No I’m fine. I need to hear everything,” you stood your ground in the library, not wanting to move. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea Y/n,” Blanc responded.

“Go with them,” Your dad said. He knew it was over for him and he didn’t want you to see anything that was about to happen. He wanted your last memories of him to be at least halfway decent. 

You let the trooper lead you out of the room but you shrugged him off and slammed the front door shut, gaining the attention of the family. 

“What’s going on in there?” Joni asked. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you snapped at her, sitting down on the front steps, far enough away from them. You put your head in your hands and let all your tears spill out. You knew he was guilty as you put the rest of the pieces together. You didn’t know how long he would be away from you or what would happen to you. Once the family found out, they wouldn’t want anything to do with you. They barely acknowledged you now. 

You didn’t look up from your hands until you heard a sound like a hand hitting something. You looked up and saw your grandfather holding his face. Linda was rambling on about him cheating or something. You weren't paying too much attention because at the same time, your dad was being walked out in handcuffs by Wagner. 

You stood up and tried to get to him but Elliot held you back, “Dad? What’s going on,”

He didn’t respond. He just hung his head and avoided eye contact with you. Elliot placed a hand on your shoulder. The whole family was looking at him and then back to you. 

“Why don’t we go back inside. You can see him at the station later,” Elliot said. You nodded and walked into the house. You sat on the bench outside Harlan’s office. The same place you were the night your dad had fought with him. The night your dad lied to you about the will. The night he killed Harlan. 

You sat on the bench until you heard footsteps down the hallway. 

“What’s going to happen to Y/n? I’d hate to see her with another family,” you heard Marta say. 

“I don’t know. Maybe Linda and Richard will take her in. She’s their grandchild,” Benoit said. You knew that wasn’t going to happen, considering the event that took place less than five minutes ago. 

“I don’t know. Maybe not after what happened with Ransom. When they find out,”

“I'm sure she would love to stay here. Away from this family and with someone who might care for her,” 

“You really think Y/n would want that Blanc? I don’t know,”

“We can ask her now,” he said, gesturing towards you. You stood up and walked over to them. 

“Ask me what?” you knew what they were talking about, you just didn’t want them to know. 

“Would you like to stay here? I know things are tough with your dad and everyone else,” Marta asked, “I understand if you don’t want to,”

You nodded, “I guess. I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” you laughed nervously. The whole situation was now setting in. Marta left you and Benoit alone. 

“Thank you for helping me these past few days. I know it wasn’t easy but you helped a lot,” he said. 

You shook your head, “I couldn't do it. I couldn’t handle the truth. I’m not good at this kinda thing,”

“You know, the truth is hard to handle at some points. And it’s even harder when the truth reveals something about a person we love very dearly,” he consoled. 

Before you could respond, another officer walked into the house, “We’re ready to take Y/n back to the station,”

You looked at Benoit, “I’ll be fine. You can stay here with everyone else,” you went out the front door and into the back of one of the police cars. Once you arrived at the station, you were led into one of the interrogation rooms, the one where your dad was sitting in handcuffs. 

“I'm sorry this happened. I was trying to protect us,” he said. 

“There were other ways dad. Why did you do all this?” you sat down across from him. 

“You’re mad at me aren’t you. I’m going to be here for a while,”

You shook your head, “I’m not mad. I just wished this went a different way. Maybe if you asked me for help,”

“I wouldn’t let you do that. I kept all this a secret from you so you wouldn’t get in trouble,”

You grabbed his hands in yours, ignoring the cuffs on his wrists, “I know dad. I still love you, no matter what happens and no matter how long you’re gone,”

An officer came into the room, “We need your statement Y/n,” she held the door open for you. You turned to your dad one last time before the door slammed shut in your face. 

Taglist

@thevelvetseries​ @not-the-teen-witch​

[et-lesailes]

alibi

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

word count: 2485

summary: the death of harlan thrombey is being investigated, and while ransom seems to be the perfect suspect, he also has the perfect alibi.

themes: mentions of murder, drama, fluff

taglist: @evanstush​, @chibi-crazy​, @tanyam93​, @bval-1​, @wonderwinchester​,  @patzammit​, @rohaintahquil​, @deidrashouseofpain​, @sammyslonglostshoe​, @mizariomi​, @jadedhillon​, @bohemian-barbie​, @marvelouspottering​, @sebabestianstan101​, @lille-kattunge​, @peach-acid​, @heyiamthatbitch​, @cptn-sgrogers​, @heyyouwiththeassbutt​, @bangtan-serendipity​, @troublermalik​, @beardburnsupersoldiers​, @hannie-stark​, @bookish-shristi​, @kind-sober-fullydressed​, @whores4thor​, @gingerninjaprincess16​, @straightforwardly​, @danathewitchywoman​, @denisemarieangelina​, @mango--mango​, @frencchfries​, @xlanawriter​, @littlemoistcarrot​, @pottxrwolff​, @arianatheangelworld​, @ifuseekamyevans​, @southerngracela​, @nsfwsebbie​, @rororo06​​, @almost-had-the-stars​, @sebastian-i-stan​, @whysparker​​

notes: this was based on an idea given to me by @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory​ and i absolutely loved it! i did change it up a little, and no i did not reveal who the actual killer is-- because i don’t know how to write mystery fics for shit, and i wanted to focus on ransom and reader’s relationship rather than solving an entire ass murder. anywho there are references to scenes from the movie so if you’re sensitive to spoilers then don’t read! and thank you to @thewritingdoll​ for the graphic!

“You think I killed my Granddad.”

Ransom looks at Detective Benoit for a few seconds before scoffing, even smirking as he looks to the window of the elegant room lined with bookshelves. “And why exactly do you think that?”

“Now I didn’t say that.” The detective drawls, leaning forward and looking at the younger with intense crystal hues. “But you left his party early, right after a rather serious fight with him, and you don’t bother to show to the funeral… seems a little suspicious. I’d like to know where you were.”

Ransom looks at the detective for a few moments before leaning in as well. “Where I was,” he lowers his voice, “is none of your goddamn business. It’s not even relevant to anyone in this goddamn family, so you can go ahead and get your Kentucky Fried ass out of it right now.” He stands up, looking at the detective almost challengingly. “Maybe you should find another occupation, Detective, because you don’t seem all that great at this one.”

Benoit watches as the man turns around and walks out the door. A few seconds later, he stands up as well, walking outside. He gets into the passenger side of a waiting car, the headlights turned off.

He nods towards Detective Elliot sitting in the driver’s side. “Follow him.”

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS EARLIER

“Interesting how you’ll show up at the reading of the will and not at your grandfather’s actual funeral.” Walt Thrombey comments as Ransom strides into the room, his expression bored as he tucks his sunglasses into his pocket. He barely smirks in amusement upon his uncle’s comment, sitting himself down on one of the couches and crossing his legs. “Had another commitment. Unlike you, I wasn’t stuck up his ass my whole life.”

Walt widens his eyes, immediately shooting up from his seat through struggling slightly with his limp. “What the hell did you just say to me? That’s not true, w-we worked together, of course we had to spend time together!” His wife quickly grabs his arm, giving Ransom a dirty look. “Just sit down, sweetheart.” Ransom notices his father barely chuckle out of the corner of his eye. 

What a family.

“You shouldn’t be here, Ransom,” Meg hisses, glaring at her older cousin. “You never appreciated Granddad. All you did was fight with him all the time.” Her mother Joni bites her lip but murmurs, “Up until his very last night…. Seems a little suspicious.” Linda immediately turns on her. “Excuse you? Are you trying to imply something here concerning my son?” 

“Oh come on, Linda,” Walt scoffs, “I bet you wouldn’t put it past him either. Kid’s a sociopath, always has been. We’ve been telling you to get him help for years.”

“My son does not need help!” Richard raises his voice, standing up infuriated. “And do you really want to talk about damaged children right now? Have you met Jacob?”

The young teenage boy looks up from his phone, clearly offended. “What’s wrong with me? Besides, I told you guys, I heard Ransom basically threatening Granddad! He clearly did it!” His mother quickly rubs his arm. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Jacob.” The fight only escalates from there, insults directed towards all the Thrombey children firing back and forth. 

Ransom can’t help himself. It starts out as a grin, then a low chuckle, then finally a loud cackle of laughter. He’s practically thumping the armrest of the couch, shaking his head to himself. “Oh, God. You guys are too funny. We should do this more often.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Meg practically screeches, “What is wrong with you? How are you getting enjoyment from this?” Over her voice, other comments can be heard-- “He shouldn’t even be here!” “Can he just fucking leave already?” “Do something about your son!” “Why do you guys suck as parents?” “He should be removed from the damn family!” “Fucking spoiled brat!” “Cut him off already!”

Ransom scoffs, his face still full of amusement. “How about… eat shit,” he points to Meg, then Walt, “and you eat shit,” he continues, then chuckles seeing his parents reprimanding him, “you definitely eat shit…” 

He’s still going as everyone’s telling him how “classy” he is, the uproar becoming louder and louder. Perhaps anyone else in his position would be affected by this-- it normally isn’t easy for most to be so hated and despised by their own family, and it’s generally quite stressful to be in a yelling match with at least seven other people. Not for Ransom, though. He’s lived with this dysfunction his whole life, and now, he only finds it hilarious how uptight and irritable his high strung family gets. They make it so damn easy for him to have some fun.

“Hello? Excuse me!” a loud voice rings above all the fighting, and everyone falls silent, looking towards the doorway. An old man is standing there, looking at the family in both shock and disgust. “We’re ready to read the will now, if you all are done.” Everyone immediately gets up, nodding their heads and forgetting all about the drama Ransom’s started.

For now, anyways.

Detective Benoit Blanc can’t help but study Ransom as the will is being read, taking in how calm and collected he is. He has not eliminated any suspects, and God knows this entire family is a mess of dysfunction and motive, but he has at least had the opportunity to talk with them and get to know them a little better. Ransom is still a mystery, and he finds this suspicious.

It is not long before the family is in an uproar again, this time over the will. Even Benoit is shocked. All of Harlan’s inheritance, gone to Marta Cabrera? He looks to Ransom, who’s simply sitting there grinning like an idiot- even beginning to laugh hysterically.

Ransom appears to be the only one who knew of Harlan’s plans before anyone else in the family. Benoit takes note of this. Perhaps it will help him later on. 

PRESENT TIME

“There’s two cars in the driveway.” Lieutenant Elliot notes, the two of them watching as Ransom gets out of his. “A Honda Civic. Nothing flashy, expensive-- certainly not Ransom’s.” Benoit murmurs, keeping his head slightly low as he keeps an eye on the man from their spot behind a tree. He walks into the modern style home, and Elliot barely chuckles. “These giant windows sure help. Jesus, he must not care too much for privacy.” He raises an eyebrow, adding, “Not that this is going to give us anything, Benny, come on-- the guy killed himself. That’s all there is to it.”

“There’s just something about this boy.” Benoit sighs, looking to the house calmly. “He’s… hiding something. From his entire family. I’d like to make sure it doesn’t involve Harlan’s death.” 

What the two see in the next five minutes is definitely unexpected, to say the least. Elliot watches the living room window in shock, scoffing slowly. “Unbelievable. This is what he’s hiding? How-- how could his family not know?” 

Benoit watches, his expression unreadable for a few moments before the corner of his lips slowly tugs upwards. “I see.” He murmurs, more so to himself. “I suppose the kid could be innocent, after all.” 

“Why am I here again?” Ransom raises an eyebrow at the man before him, crossing his legs. “We’ve already gone over this. I didn’t kill my Granddad, and I’m not answering any questions as to where I-”

“Anette Harper Drysdale.” Benoit cuts him off, looking at an open file in his hands. “Born November 22nd at 11:42 AM.” He looks up at Ransom’s shocked expression, tilting his head to one side. “During your grandfather’s funeral.” He looks back down at the file, flipping to another page. “It appears her mother arrived at the hospital the night before, though. Early contractions. You checked in to see her at 9:23 PM and didn’t check out until after the baby was born.”

“How do you have those?” Ransom immediately hisses, shooting up from his chair and reaching out to grab the file. Benoit lets him, having suspected he would do as much anyways. “We had reasonable suspicion, and so the hospital was required to give it to us. I’m only confused as to why you didn’t just tell us all of this from the start. You clearly had no part in your grandfather’s death. Why not prove yourself innocent with this?”

“Because my family can’t know about Y/N. And they especially can’t know about Anette.” Ransom sits back down, teeth grit from frustration. “Fine. You got me, alright? I’m married. And now, I have a daughter. A daughter who isn’t even a week old. That’s all I’m hiding here, and I want to continue hiding it. I’m not introducing my real family to this fucked up bunch.”

“I won’t tell them.” Benoit replies after studying the other for a few moments. “I have to admit, I had you all wrong.”

“Yeah, most people do. Look, being with Y/N- I’m not the same person I was before. I mean, sure, I’m not a fucking saint. And I’ll still take any chance I can to see my parents, cousins, uncles, aunts-- to see them get screwed over just because of how damn entertaining it is. But I’m never, never going to do something to jeopardize my wife, and now, my daughter. Do you get that?”

Benoit looks at the intensity in Ransom’s features. He’s sure the boy knows how to lie like a pro, but he can tell he’s not lying now.

“You can go, Ransom. I’ve officially eliminated you as a suspect from this case.”

You’re sitting at home in the nursery and cradling your sweet baby girl to sleep when Ransom walks in, his loud sigh echoing through the spacious living room. “Oh!” you whisper, wanting to call to him that you’re upstairs but definitely not wanting to wake little Anette. You carefully stand up, holding her close as you walk out of the nursery, coming to the banister that gives you a view of the front door so you can wave to him to come up. He immediately grins upon seeing you, taking off his coat and scarf tossing both on the nearby couch before making his way upstairs. “Hey.” He mumbles lowly, wrapping one arm around you and kissing your head. “How is she?” You smile, leaning into your boyfriend’s hold. “A little angel. I can’t believe how lucky we got, she barely cries-- only when she’s hungry.” 

He stares down at his daughter’s face, almost in disbelief with himself. He never cared for babies, or for people for that matter. After living with such a shit family like his, he had never really learned what loving or caring for someone was like. He watched them use others, use his grandfather’s money for their own success, and so that’s what he did. People were puppets to be manipulated, and he could bend them to his will however he wanted because of his family’s money.

And then he met you. No, it wasn’t love at first sight, no bullshit like that. He hates to think about it but in the beginning, he saw you as he saw every other female companion he came across. Someone to play with, someone to throw money at for a couple of weeks just for the hell of it, someone to satisfy his sexual needs. 

At least, that’s what he had wanted from you. And you were certainly not giving into it. 

He remembers how shocked yet intrigued he had been. You wouldn’t accept any money from him, and you didn’t fall for any of his charming flirtations. He even had to watch you date other men right in front of him before finally realizing this was driving him crazy. It started out as simply wanting something he couldn’t have. As he got to know you, it turned into just… wanting you no matter what. It stopped becoming some type of challenging game to him. It became reality. 

He thought he was the master manipulator in any relationship, but damn, you managed to twist him into all sorts of shapes and forms without even trying.

“She gets it from you, you know.” He mutters playfully with a scoff as he carefully walks you back into the nursery, eyes still fixated on his sleeping baby’s face. “Can’t even imagine having one like me running around.” You laugh softly at the thought, gently setting the little girl down into her crib. She barely frowns and you hold your breath, worried that those blue-green eyes might open along with a wailing mouth, but she simply settles down again and resumes sleeping. “Well, that might be a possibility in the future,” you remark as you step back, looking up at him with an amused smile. “Aren’t you the one who said you want us to have at least three?”

“Mainly because you look so fucking sexy when you’re pregnant.” Ransom mutters, leaning down to bury his head in your neck and start kissing at every inch of skin he can. “It’s just so hot seeing you carry my child.” You smile as you tilt your head, reaching your hand up to stroke his hair. “Well my handsome baby daddy, you can calm down for the time being because I have no plans of being pregnant again right after giving birth.” He sighs dramatically as the two of you leave the nursery, closing the door but leaving it slightly cracked open. “Mm, fine, we’ll talk when Anette’s one.”

You chuckle softly but bite your lip, holding his hands as you stop to look up at him. “What did he ask you?” Ransom pauses before sighing, looking down at you seriously. “He knows about us. About Anette. But he promised he wouldn’t tell my family. He just cleared me from the case, I’m officially not involved anymore.”

You sigh in relief, squeezing his hand lightly. “That’s great, baby. But... what are you going to do?” you ask, a little worried. “Sooner or later you’re not going to have their money anymore. I don’t mind being the only one working, babe, but with a single income we might have to move out of this place…”

Ransom looks down at you more seriously, reaching out to stroke a strand of your hair behind your ear. “If I have to get a job at my mom’s stupid real estate agency, I will. No matter what, we’ll figure this out. I’m going to do whatever I can if it means providing for the two of you and giving you the best damn life possible, got it?”

You smile and nod your head, standing on your tiptoes to peck his lips. “As long as you’re here with us, we’ve already got the best life.” 

[iwriteweightgainbullshit]

Okay okay, I know I said this before but I fr want to start writing again, but just at a slow tempo. Not hurry anything yk? So anyways. I mostly write weight gain stories but if anyone would like anything else hit me up.

Please send me requests :)

What you can request:

-Marvel (pretty much every character, but I mostly write bucky and Steve)

-stranger things (only male)

-star wars (obi-wan, anakin (or darth vader) and padme)

-brookyln nine nine (all characters)

-the office (all characters)

-panic! At the disco

-twenty one pilots

-knives out (benoit blanc, Marta and Benoit's boyfriend who's name I cant think of for a sec)

-Bo Burnham

If you want anything that's not on the list just ask :)

I am okay with writing about pretty much every kink but some things I'd like to discuss first.

That's all for now :)

[fandom-go-round]

Aftermath: Marta Cabrera x Reader x Benoit Blanc

I love Knives Out and I couldn’t decide who I loved more so I figured, why not both?

Alternate Title: When You Don’t Know If You Want to Smooch the Gutsy Girl or The Sauvé Detective

           You knew the moment Marta touched him. You were pacing in the living room, trying to ignore the mild panic flowing through the bond. Your shoulder burns where your mark pulses and you gasp, falling to your knees. Your mind is overcome by fear and you don’t even realize that you’re screaming.

           Once the fear dies own you come back to yourself, shaking and gasping on the floor. Heat sears through your hand and you groan, flexing your muscles but not focusing on it. Your bond with Marta buzzes in your mind and beyond that you feel… something else. Something new.

           You stand slowly, leaning on the wall and catching your breath. Someone knocks on your door but you ignore it, going to your phone. You send a pulse of concern to Marta and she startles, something beyond her also startling. She sends back calm reassurance embarrassment and you take comfort in knowing that she’s at least responding. You send back concern fear confusion and you get the sense that she’s distracted and going to call you later. You’re more than a little annoyed but send back acknowledgement and go to the door. Time to apologize to Ms. Martin.

♥

           Marta calls you more than an hour later and after Ms. Martin has thoroughly yelled your ears off. You made up some excuse about seeing a bug and she goes off, yelling about how you’re interrupting other families with your ‘overreactions’. You don’t mention that the screaming matches with her husband carry much farther but you think it more than once.

           Marta’s voice is low and soothing, her accent music to your ears. You release a sigh, tension draining from your body. You feel better now that you can hear her and the two of you share love affection contentedness freely.

           “Hello darling.” You hum, closing your eyes and see her in your mind. She’s sitting on a chair in a hallway, most likely Harlan’s.

           “Hey babe. You alright?” She hums back, not commenting and you know she’s trying not to lie.

           “I’m tired.” You nod, knowing that even if she can’t see it, she can feel it.

           “Did they figure it out?”

           “Yes.” This time the pause is longer and you open your eyes, watching the ceiling fan rotate. “… It was Ransom.” You scoff and she half laughs, half sighs.

           “I’m surprised and not surprised.” She sighs again and sounds tired; you wish you were there to hold her.

           “Because he’s as ass?”

           “Because he loved Harlan just as much as you did.” Marta let’s out a laugh that’s more of a sob. “Where are you?”

           “At the house.”

           “I’m coming to get you.” Your coat is already halfway on when Marta speaks again, crying for sure now.

           “I have another mark.” You freeze, confusion and fear racing down your spine. Marta can tell what you’re feeling and immediately begins to ramble, pushing love reassurance fear right back at you. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, he just offered me a hand after Ransom tried to kill me and I swear, I didn’t mean for it to happen, I love you so much- “

           “Ransom tried to kill you!?” Your voice cuts off her and Marta goes silent for a heartbeat.

           “There’s a lot to talk about.”

           “Damn straight there is.” She laughs and it’s weak but it’s better than nothing. “…. I knew. When you touched them, I felt it. I can still kind of feel them.”

           “Him.”

           “Him?”

           “Benoit Blanc.” You choked on air, eyes wide as you sputtered.

           “You’re shitting me!”

           “Darling please.” Marta sighed again; disapproval heavy in her voice. She’s wasn’t a fan of swearing. You get the faint sense of amusement over the bond and you can tell that it’s not Marta. It feels different, tastes different in your mind but it’s not a bad thing.

           “You’re talking about the cute older man who you’ve been trying to avoid?” Embarrassment for two different kinds moves through the bond and you snicker, even as Marta begins to scold you.

           “I told you that in confidence!”

           “Am I on speaker phone?” She hesitates before grumbling out a ‘yes’. You laugh again and another voice comes on, male and smooth like honey.

           “Ah apologize, Ah didn’t mean ta be eavesdroppin’.”

           “It’s alright.” Your keys are in your hands and you hesitate at the door, wanting to get the ok before heading over. “Want me to pick anything up on the way over?” The phone is silent for a moment before Marta speaks.

           “Could you grab some donuts? And milk?” Benoit laughs and you smile, locking the door behind you.

           “Of course babe. See you in a bit.”

[jjsmaybank20]

Hey, I hope you are having a wonderful day/week! I really don't know if I am doing this right since this is the first time I ever request something. I read some of your stories and I really liked them. I was wondering if you could right a fluff from Marta Cabrera x female reader (an author if that's okay), maybe after the events from Knives Out, there isn't enough content from her. She is so precious! If you can't that's alright too. Lots of love!

Always and Forever

Marta Cabrera x GN!Reader

Summary: Marta Cabrera is the woman for you.

Warnings: Mentions of murder, mentions of smut, L-bomb, otherwise just fluff!

Word Count: 972

A/N: I'm baaaack! Enjoy this fluffy fic to mark my return.

navigation misc. masterlist

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Harlan Thrombey was your mentor, Go partner, and close confidant. You were an aspiring mystery writer, and he took you in and taught you his secret and wonderful ways with words. He helped you through some of the toughest times of your life, and quickly became something of a father figure to you. Because of this, you grew closer to the Thrombey family.

Over time, Harlan grew older, and he hired Marta Cabrera to assist him. At first, you weren’t a huge fan of hers. She became one of his Go partners, he would confide in her, and they became very close friends. You felt jealous, missing the times when it was just you and Harlan. Soon though, she grew on you just as she had on the rest of the Thrombeys.

Soon you realized that you had developed feelings for her. Not knowing what to do, you went to Meg for help. With her assistance, you awkwardly asked Marta out. She thankfully said yes, and you took her on a wonderful date. That was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. 

You two were in love, it was clear to see, but it wasn’t without it’s hardships. You struggled when Harlan passed, but you were quick to reassure your girlfriend that you didn’t blame her at all. You helped her to fool Detective Benoit, and stuck by her side throughout the entire ordeal.

You were there for her at the will reading, and when the Thrombeys got violent, you turned against your found family and held them off while Ransom drove Marta away. 

Not trusting Ransom, as you had known him for years and you knew what he was like, you were quick to join her when they were headed to the DNA Lab. Seeing that it was on fire, the three of you fled, leading to the dumbest car chase in the history of car chases.

Finally, you and Marta discovered Fran in the abandoned shop, and called 911 to attempt to save her. Detective Blanc soon collected the two of you, and brought you to the hospital, and then the Thrombey house. 

Knowing that Marta was going to confess, you stood close by her so that you could protect her from anybody who would try to attack her. As she was about to begin, Blanc interrupted her and then pulled her away.

You quickly followed after them. When you heard Marta lie about Fran’s survival, you were quick to call her bluff silently. You could always tell when your girlfriend was lying, even when she didn’t puke right away. 

Upon hearing the confession of Ransom, you knew he would attempt to go out with a bang. When Marta puked in his face, you were quick to push her out of the way as you saw him go to lunch for a knife. 

Ending up on the floor with him on top of you, you let out a massive sigh of relief, feeling that the knife was a trick. Sort of like Harlan’s final punishment for the now imprisoned Drysdale. It was only fair.

---

Two months after the whole ordeal, you, Marta, and Marta’s mother and sister were comfortably moved into the former Thrombey house. With how much time you spent there, it already felt like it was your home, so it was only fit that your girlfriend owned it.

Waking up one morning, you see that Marta isn’t in bed with you. You begin to search around the large house for her, finally finding her out on the balcony that overlooks a fair amount of the property. 

Coming up behind her, you wrap your arms around her much smaller body. You feel her lean back into you, and the sensation makes you realize that you wouldn’t want to ever be anywhere but here, with your girlfriend in your arms, staring out over her beautiful land.

“Hey, sweetheart. What’re you doing up?” She asks you softly. You grin at the pet name, never getting over the butterflies that explode when she calls you it. You press soft kisses to her hickey covered neck, a product of the many long nights before. 

“I could ask you the same, love. Couldn’t sleep?” She shudders lightly, your morning voice always having some kind of affect on her. 

She shakes her head. You snuggle back into her before realizing what you have to do. You quickly tell her to stay where she is, then you run inside and grab the little black velvet box that you have been waiting to present to her.

When you come back, you have it hidden behind your back. Marta looks at you, confused. You smile at her before getting down on one knee. She gasps.

“Marta, I didn’t like you very much when I first met you. I thought you were stealing Harlan’s attention away from me. Over time, you slowly won me over. You just have that ability. You help me write my books when I’m stuck, and you know exactly what to say when I’m nervous about a release. We have been through hell and back together, and I would like to spend the rest of my life with you. So, Marta Cabrera, would you make me the happiest person alive and marry me?”

By this point, tears are streaming down both of your cheeks. Marta quickly gasps out a yes, and you jump up and pull her into a passionate kiss. 

“Oh my god, I love you so much!” She breathes against your lips. You laugh before saying, “I love you too. Now, we have to go tell your mom and sister. Marta Y/L/N, I like the sound of that.”

Marta smacks you playfully while you walk off to go tell your families the wonderful news. You couldn’t wait to marry this wonderful woman before you.

---

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