#Lucas Oil Dirt

[dak91]

#dirt bikes #motocross #renthal #lucas oil #fmx #pro circuit #vp racing #racing #motorcycles #custom bikes #bikes for sale

[voidwritesstuff]

Long Way To The Truth

Cw:alcohol,discussions of therapy and grief.

Summary: Lucas finally reaches Washington and settled into Milton-Haven.

♡Chapter 8: Washington.

A/n: FINALLY DONE. Enjoy.

Soon he leaves the grand beaver state of Oregon, though its mountains and forest lines accompany him, hes greeted with small homes and rudementary brick Bridges.

Above him its a cool summer morning, a few clouds dappled here and there under the blue Sky. He taps his fingers on the steeringwheel just taking the Farmland in, and hes reminded of that cabin Rosemary had mentioned.

Lucas easily saw himself as a park ranger,he had grown up in Florida, explored the forests and knew how to survive in the wild. He hopes nobody has taken the job up until now, He'd be genuinely sad about it if so.

He lowers the sun visor,eyes catching sight of the picture hes got of him and Wheeler--Hey bud,see me as a park ranger?--He asked,mostly to humor himself while on the road.

And it makes him chuckle. "Yep,lost it" he thinks with a grin, just playing along to his boredom.

Eventually he does make it to Milton-Haven, the large entrance of almost this Greek looking style with two statues holding up this large wooden sign with faded colors.

The statues are of two greek gods,one is Morpheus god of dreams, and the other one is Psyche goddess of the soul.

His eyes quickly reads the wooden sign, "Welcome to Milton-Haven, The place that Will forever live in your mind" the faded pastel magentas, purples And blues swirl together in this oil spill pattern, beautiful but oddly...forboding.

People dont pay attention to his van as he drives into the town proper. Lucas feel relief wash over him, finally he had made it.

《It doesn't hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)

Do you wanna feel how it feels? (Yeah, yeah, yo)

Do you wanna know, know that it doesn't hurt me? (Yeah, yeah, yo)

Do you wanna hear about the deal that I'm making? (Yeah, yeah, yo)》the radio plays, and he simply humms along. He loves this song.

He asks for directions to Elysium park and is quickly directed towards it. He drives over some Train tracks as he enters the greenery filled place, how does this small town have a train? For what purposes? Do they export something?

Or are they receiving something?

The van is left to be Parked outside the entrance of the place, before him is a large sign that reads "Elysium State Park". Its oddly charming,especially now that midday is coming up.

His eyes dont pay attention to the phone booth there either, he always saw them as very....ominous? Anyone could call one of them up and whoever picks it up could be subjected to one weird phonecall.

Lucas would rather not leave the van alone,but he cant drive into the park. So,he grabs his walkman and one of his mixtapes to listen as he walks, better to Keep his mind distracted.

And as he walks into the park, he simply takes the forest in,the crisp air and walks in silence. Few people at that hour of the day,at least for now

《You

It's you and me

And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

Be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

Be runnin' up that building

Say, if I only could, oh》

He walks down the beaten path,dirt crunching underneath his boot. His body feels...somewhat light, relieved.

Finally,he had arrived to the place that has been haunting him. He can let go of some the worry,of the guilty.

"I'm already here,Al' just you wait" he thinks before Spotting a big map of the park. Just what he needed,perfect.

Summer breeze blows past him,hair and his green flannel blowing in the wind. The sunlight is warm against his tan skin, he checks the route and finds a visitors center.

--Hell yeah-- He mutters with a smile, and hey look-! The ranger cabin is right on the way to the center.

Off he goes then, feeling like a Man on a mission.

As he walks,the people around him dont pay much attention to him. Its good to not feel so exposed,he blends in and allows himself to just fully admire the forest.

Sunlight spills its light past the boughs of the trees,the leaves move,Sway and fall with the gentle summer wind that caresses them and runs past the branches Freely.

People sit under the shade, eating their lunch and talking. Birds fly over him, looking for food to snatch- Hes sure he saw a pigeon steal a piece of bread from a nearby picnic basket.

It reminds him of home a little, he was a big Outdoors person-Him and his family would go out Hunting. He wonders if Milton-Haven gets deer and other hunting game, perhaps he can go out to hunt sometime soon. That would be fun,and he could practice his aim.

He walks past the broken down ranger cabin,chunks of the roof are missing,some of the wood is old and rotten,some Windows broken by teenagers probably.

Theres an odd carving on one of the walls. 《J&L were here》. Yep,this Is the work of teenagers-And poorly maintained infraestructure.

--Charlie Foxtrot--He mutters under his breath,that house was a clusterfuck indeed.

Eventually he makes it to the visitor's center. Its a large Wood and brick estructure, designed to look like a cozy cabin. The large Windows, the earthy colors- He gets that feeling of nostalgic 60s architecture and 90s modernism.

He steps in and stops the tape in the walkman,he takes off his headphones and goes to the main desk.

Before him a woman,short red hair,deep brown eyes with freckles. --'scuse me?

The woman looks up at him, eyes tired but welcoming--Hello, what can I help you with?

Okay,now hes got to talk. Not good at that one...

--Came- came here for the ranger job- I- I saw a broken down cabin on the uh...way here?--He stutters,not sure what to say or how to say it. Its not exactly a job interview...

She nodds and smiles a little,trying to reassure him--Ah yes! The groundskeeper job right? Ill go get Miss Witherspon,she works at the parks department, you see? She can help out

So off the girl leaves,he doesnt know her name or how Long itll take her. Perfect,now to stand there awkwardly until something happens.

He sits at one of the nearby Chairs,fidgeting with his dogtags and just....existing mostly. As much as he liked the great outdoors,places Like this kind of throw him off.

Luckily theres not Many people around to judge him or stare at him,which hes thankfull for because he wouldnt know how to handle it.

When the girl returns,Lucas is met with whom she guessed is Miss Witherspoon. He sees a black woman, eyes a dark grey with her brown hair in Jheri Curls,held Back with a black headband, she wears a comfy suit of a deep blue.

--This Man is here for the groundskeeper job--The girl that manned the desk said,gesturing at the ex soldier.

--Lucas Cole--He extended his hand and Miss Witherspoon shook it.

--Sally Witherspoon, nice to make your acquaintance-- The black woman answered with a polite smile-- Can I ask what interests you about the job?

Hes good at lying through his teeth, so he shrugs and gives her a coy smile.--well I like the great outdoors,the greenery- And judging by the state of the Cabin back there...it needs some love--He makes a pause--A lot.

The woman infront of him snickers--Hah,it does--She agreed-- We've been needing a groundskeeper for a while- You have experience with that kinda job?

Lucas nodds, seeing the red haired girl return the the main desk. --Yes,actually--He replied,sounding all friendly-- Im originally from Florida you see? My family used to go out hunting,camping, ive grown around forests. And im a veteran so I know a thing or two about security--He jingles his dogtags.

Sally looks impressed--Well, I mean if you can fix up that old cabin then the Jobs all yours

He blinks a little confused--That easy?

The woman scoffs--we're in need of a groundskeeper,and that cabin is an eye sore,so yes.

--Well,perfect. Ill take you up on that offer--He replied,not looking a gift horse in the mouth.

--Great,I'll talk with my sueperiors and get the materials needed. You're just going to have to..

--Do the hard work?--She nodds a little sheepish-- hah,dont worry ma'am im quite used to it

After that she hands him the number of the parks department for him to call if hes got questions. And off he goes back to his van, figuring he ought to explore the town a little better.

Though first,he better get something to eat. So,he stops at the parks dinner for some lunch-He digs the rustic vibes of the place. His ordee is taken by an older woman around his age, the tag on her shirt reads "Olive".

Milton-Haven is quite small town like-He realized as he Walked around the place post lunch. Theres safety in numbers and hes happy to blend in with the people around him, jusr admiring the simple quaintness of the place.

He makes notes of a few interesting places,restaurants, cafés,a record shop and a bar. "Dyonisus Bar" read the neon sign that shines even at this early hour of the afternoon.

Out of Curiosity and mild boredom he steps in, the place is quite rustic with fake grapevines tangling around the beanpoles and the walls. Its a mix of 90s architecture with its ornate details in the scaffolding,the decorations of the walls and that rustic feel that seems to be a trend around the town.

--Quite early for a drink huh?--A Man behins the bar asks to another costumer. The ex soldier turns to see a guy in his 20s manning the bar, dark brown hair with a cobalt blue underdye, greyish green eyes and tattoos all across his arms.

Lucas sits to see if he can strike up a conversation with the guy,get some more information on the place. He calls the attention of the barkeeper and smiles politely.

--You too huh? Its not even happy hour--the brown haired Man says with a smirk.

--Hah, kind of. Just here to ask about the town, im uh- New

--I'd say,havent seen you before--Theres a small hint of a hispanic accent to the Man, his way of speaking is sing-songy-- Whats your name,stranger?--He asked,polishing a glass.

--Lucas, n you are?-- he finds himself Charmed by the guy, a lot of charisma clearly.

--Lazaro, call me laz

--Nice to meetcha,Laz-- the radioman answers--What can you tell me about the town?

--We're small, honestly. Quite boring--He replied,setting down the polished glass--Before I say anything though, whats your poison?

He chuckled--Gotta pay for information?

The Man chuckled--All in a days work,mate. Dont wanna be greedy but you know-Gotta make a living

--Fair enough, just a beer Will do-- he replied, not minding getting hustled.

--cool, we've got Budlight,Corona,budwiser and uhhh--He thinks for a moment, turning to the small fridge behind the bar-- Heineken

--Corona 

Lazaro nodds and goes to Grab a bottle,hes quick to return and pocket the metal cap once the bottle is Open-- good choice,Its my sisters favorite--He pushes the beer up to the other man-- Actually,sorry to be so forward but youre exactly my sisters type

His face blooms with deep reds,he coughs a little- Jesus, hes not used to this-- uhm...thanks?

The barkeeper snorts-- ill make you a discount for the discomfort-- the soldier chuckles, easing into the conversation-- As I was saying, we're a small town. Quiet,cozy,easy going

Lucas nodds--Any interesting history to the place?

--Not sure- Theres the icarus point,the lighthouse- Oh the church of the blessed eyes, thats pretty--He lists off a few places until he adds--Oh right,it slipped my mind- Fort Sonder! Yeah the old bunker at Elysium Park!

--The whatnow?

--Yeah! Its an old world war II bunker, havent been used in ages-- Laz replied, tapping on the counter-- ive seen some people around It- security probably I mean im sure the state doesnt want kids to vandalize it

--Fair- Fair enough-- answered--Anything else?

He thinks for a brief moment,pursing his lips--Sadly no- But I guess I can ask my dad- hes ex military. Might know a thing or two

Lucas eyes widen,a little surprised--Theres veterans here?

--kinda! Me and my family moved here around...three years ago. Mostly world war two, like my dad!--He chirped-- Ah,hold on-Now you opened pandoras box I love talking about my family

--Kid, i got nuthin but time. Ramble away--He answers,seeing the younger guy pull out a photo and handing it to him.

On the picture theres obviously Laz,though hes covered in piercings and dressed like a goth. Beside him is his younger sister,brown eyes and a gold underdye, bright green eyes full of mirth, shes dressed like a punk.

His eyes turn to the taller figures behind them both, his gaze turns...puzzled-- before you say anything, we're adopted-- Laz says with a slight smile at the other Mans confusion.

--I- sorry

--Dont be

Lucas returns his gaze to the  Man behind the siblings,taller and well built,covered in scars and marks over his eye and cheek and a lot of freckles on his coppery skin. Beside him is an even taller woman, probably around his own height (6'10),she has beautiful dark brown skin,her afro covers her eyes and shes built on the bigger side, her lips have a warm grin.

--This is Raymond,my dad--Lazaro points at the Man with thay Cooper colored skin-- And this is Eryz,my mamma-- he gestures at the woman with the afro-- Aaaaand~ This is my sister --He points at the smaller woman beside his photo self. He grins at the soldier.

Its clear Laz is just messing with Lucas, he plays along because its just a 20 something being a teasing dipshit. Hes been there before,did the same dumb shit and he just decides to play along.

--nice family--Lucas answers with a smirk-- Gotta say your dad doesnt look his age-you said he was in world war two?

The barkeeper nodds--Good genes,hes like... sixty five?

He could relate to being "old" and spry, so he doesnt say anything other than--Fair --And then he remembers something, now that hes here he might as well ask about that therapist--A friend of mine June,says she knows a guy whose sister is a patient of uh..doctor Wales I believe?

--Oh no way you know June?-- Laz exclaims,happy to be reminded of his friend-- yeah,its my sister who is a patient of his

--The world really is small,huh?

--Hah! Yeah it is

Lucas chuckles a little flustered-- You dont happen to have his number do you?

--Ill ask my sister and give it to you Next time you come around--He replied, non-chalant. Not his bussiness to know why would the Man need it.

--Thats, thats really nice

He shrugs-- we all need help,come by tomorrow and I should have it- I promise you wont have to buy a beer for it

The soldier laughs loudly, nodding along with joy. Perhaps he can make a friend out of Lazaro, he could use the company--Hah, thanks for that- I dont exactly have money comin' out of my eyeballs here

Lazaro snorts at the metaphor, turning his head a little-- Pff! Fair enough!

After his beer,he pays and leaves the bar. Soon he returns to his van and decides to spend the rest of the day walking around The park, he does notice the bunker,though he keeps the visor of his cap well over his face just in case.

The bunker is old,overgrown and with a Giant radio antenna coming out of It. Theres a big chance thats where the experiments are taking place, so close yet so damn far.

He doesnt linget just in case,but he does stay nearby one of the small lakes there to Journal and relax.

"Log entry:

Finally at Milton Haven, its a relief to be here after everything. Been mingling with the locals, the town seems...quiet. I like it.

Made contact with the park people here and met a barkeeper, he told me about Fort Sonder. I suspect thats where the experiments are taking place, probably where that Dr.James is holed up.

Progress,baby steps..

Im closer and closer to finally set the record Straight."

He closes his Journal just as the sun starts to set, a sigh leaves him and he starts walking back to the van,making sure to avoid the bunker.

Luckily,he doesnt have to spend too much time living in his van. Soon enough Sally finds him and tells him he can start with the repairs.

Not a week into his little home renovation proyect,he meets Lazaro's dad,Raymond. He had offered to help him out on the repairs since its quite a lot- Lucas saw no danger in it and he accepted.

--What brings you to Milton-Haven?--Asked Raymond, helping him to set the insulation in the walls.

--Following up on an old friend--Its the best he can answer, nervously pushing back the stray hairs that dont care for being hold back by the red bandana on his head--Last I heard hes here

--Maybe i can help,whats his name?

He panicked and replied--Romeo-

--Dont know any Romeos,sadly--Ray answered,making sure to give the wall a good coat of spray foam.--havent been here long so maybe I just missed it

Okay,thank god hes not asked to elaborate--Maybe he moved,I honestly dont know

When the cabins all repaired,Raymond takes Lucas out for a beer at Dyonisus' Bar. They chat and slowly get into the talk about their service in the military.

Thats when Raymonds age start to show, he talks about world war two with a distant look in his eyes and bitter woe hid underneath his casualness.

Nothing Lucas hasnt seen before,he knows it first hand. So  return, he opens up about Vietnam,and a little bit about Wheeler.

《You don't wanna hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)

But see how deep the bullet lies (yeah, yeah, yo)

Unaware I'm tearin' you asunder (yeah, yeah, yo)

Oh, there is thunder in our hearts (yeah, yeah, yo)

Is there so much hate for the ones we love? (Yeah, yeah, yo)

Oh, tell me, we both matter, don't we? (Yeah, yeah, yo》

Music fills the silence that forms when hes done talking about Wheeler's death. Of course he doesnt tell the full story,but its good to Open up about it somewhat.

--That sounds...rough--Ray says leaning on the bar with this look of...fatherly pity in his eyes.--im so sorry, kid.

Its that damn petname that really makes his heart squeeze and churn and hurt like hell. Yet he nodds,holding Back the tears that threaten to form and expose him.

--Its- ive been dealing with it--He replied, taking a swig from his beer-- I got to talk about it with a friend we both knew, she gave me this,actually-- He gestures at the red bandana he has tied on his left wrist.

--Talking helps-- The older Man said, figuring he shouldnt pry. Though his gaze lingers on his companions bleary-- Crying too,no shame in crying

Lucas feels a little exposed- Did his eyes betray him somehow?. He clears his throat and avoids telling Ray he sounds quite a lot like Wheeler did.

After that night,Lucas moves into the place, at least the basics like his radio equipment and his cot. But he sleeps a little easier knowing he has a place to call home for a while, its a nice upgrade from living in a van crammed with Gear.

When he gets a phoneline, he calls up Dr.Wales. he had the whole thing rehearsed,he Hated calling.

--Hello?--Says a Man, of a somewhat deep but welcoming voice.

--Morning Mr.Wales --Lucas tries his best to Keep his tone steady--Im a friend of Lazaro's, his sister is a patient of yours.. I-- he makes a pause, knowing this is the first step towards recovery. He just needs to set one foot after the other-- I wanted to schedule an appointment

--Yes, of course--Dr.Wales answers,seeminly going through his schedule given the fact that the sound of flipping paper can be heard-- I think theres a space for you Next month, sounds good? Im kind of pretty busy until the end of this one

--Yes- its uh,no Biggie.

They talk for a bit,just bureocratic things like scheduling and fee discussion. After that,Lucas sits on the one person sofá hes got and rubs his eyes.

Maybe he should call up Jane and tell her the news,Surely she'd like to know hes getting help. So,he does- And admits he misses her already.

Now that hes got a "Base of operations" he tries to Catch that frequency again, now that hes close this should make it easier to eavesdrop. And he could confirm or deny his suspicion that the bunker in the park held the lab.

The few times he catches things they sound...oddly muffled. Perhaps this Dr.James had been moved to the bunker and thats why the transmission sounds so...weak?

It leads him to create what he called a "Radio Beacon",A modified walkie talkie.Now he could tune in on the frequency from the bunker, Its just a little clearer with this. And,it gives him a good side proyect to Keep his mind occupied when hes not working as a groundskeeper.

He figures that going from soldier to Park ranger is a good change of pace. He gets to be there in the great outdoors,helps people out and its mostly left to his own devices-Great cover for when hes walking around the Park late at night.

Lazaro was right, this town is quite calm and quiet. He really likes it.

One night, as he returns from his day as a firewatch(he covered sometimes for the actual firewatch guy,Eliott) he finds a cardbord envelope in his doorstep.

Hes careful to both Grab it and Open it, within it he finds a white paper that seems to be the personal Log of Doctor...Rosemary james. Taped to the page was a simple note.

"I wont tell if you dont. -Spider"

Lucas chuckles and proceeds to read the document, nursing a cup of coffee as the radio plays.

《And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

Be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

Be runnin' up that building (yo)

Say, if I only could, oh》

When hes done Reading,he goes to work on his board. He would like to think its not a conspiracy board but he can only lie to himself so much...

He finds humor in it though,and simply keeps working with what hes got. A few red threads here,some more notes over there...

In a sense,he finds pride in this work-In this mission he decided to embark on. A chance at vindication,right?

《Oh, come on, baby (yeah)

Oh, come on, darlin' (yo)

Let me steal this moment from you now

Oh, come on, angel

Come on, come on, darlin'

Let's exchange the experience (yo), oh, ooh, ooh》

--Lucas....Cole.... do you read?--Comes from his radio equipment. A garbled mess.

No,its not from the radio- its...

His head?

Lucas turns violently, seeing a woman behind him- or what he thinks is a woman. Shes covered in blue light and radio waves.

--Rosemary?--He asks,and just like that the visage is gone-- What the- no,cmon-- He runs to the equipment to try and tune into the frequency, though he finds no success in it.

To his credit,he really did try everything, even walking up near the bunker with his radio Beacon. But It seems that his luck had run out,for now at least.

《And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

I'd be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

With no problems》

And that night,as he sits on his cot journaling his eyes drift to the picture hes got with Alphonso. He smiles with nostalgia and returns his gaze to his Journal.

He sighs with that same bittersweet air--Finally here Man.-- he takes the picture and plays with one of the edges of it-- Im making things right

Lucas rips out a piece of paper and writes on it for a few minutes. Then,he sets it on his nightstand, taking a few moments to read it before heading to bed.

"I pray for you,Alphonso,

As I do every night

That your soul May be at peaceful rest.

That you watch over your brothers,here amongst the living

Where you should be

If it were not for dire mistakes

And unfortunate circumstances.

I beg for your forgiveness and your help,friend.

Give me strength

To overcome those who seek to enslave our minds.

To shine a light to those in darkness

To restore faith in those who are lost.

Amen"

Lucas Cole had finally reached Milton Haven.

And he would set the record Straight.

#in sound mind #ism #ism lucas #ism desmond #lucas cole #ism allen #ism lucas cole #desmond wales #ism virginia #oc: lazaro castro/the decay #ism allen shore #ism max #ism max nygaard

[frogboyandzombieface]

what every stranger things character smells like

( me and @bongo-goes-the-trees created this at 3am youre welcome)

hopper - smells like musky cigarettes and whiskey, a whiff of cheap cologne 

joyce - cigarettes, floral yet spicy incense and fresh laundry

steve - nice handwash smell, man deodorant, hairspray

billy - racism very strong cologne, a trace of cigarettes, and hairspray / body products, a bit of floral from all his partners

el - floral perfume, dove soap, cherry lip balm

max - trace of cigarettes, musty but in an old book way, cheap deodorant 

will - some sort of modest cologne, oil paints, turpentine, hair products

nancy - berry type perfumes hairspray, paper and ink products

mike - a lot of boy b.o, cigarettes cuz of eddie, old basement dusty musty smell

dustin - baby powder, peanut butter, apple body wash

robin - smells like cigarette, vinyl players, french pear perfume

jonathan - weed, cigs, lots of deodorant and smells to get rid of weed, and photography chemicals

lucas - sweet, modest but nice deodorant, coconut oil, maple syrup

suzie - similar to dustin, apple body wash, but also dusty and ancient smells

vecna - shit and ass and pure grot

alexei - chemicals, cleaning products, and also a hint of cherry

erica - bubblegum type bodywash and spray, chocolate and strawberry ice cream

vickie - brass cleaner, books, musty autumn leaves

owens - old man smell bit of ancient cologne

brenner - dust, moth balls, antiseptic, bleach smelling cologne

murray - cigarettes, alcohol, sexy musk smell with a hint of nice cologne

karen - cooking smells, bleach and cleaning products, fabric softener, hairspray

bob - plastic products, batteries, coffee

ted - old man farts, porridge, shoe shining shit, glasses cleaner

mr clarke - chalk, textbooks, ink, lively perfume, whiffs of foreign perfume cuz of that one lady in s1 (LIKE /?? this man has game)

callahan - stale ass coffee, doughnuts, old paper and pens

powell - dirt and like musky but also a formal cologne

eddie - cigarettes, weed, every drug on the planet, lube, latex, hairspray 

argyle - weed. thats it thats the post

keith - cheeto puffs, gross man smell, breath is shit, acne products, burnt plastic

troy - piss . cuz he pissed himself little piss boy

holly - baby shit i guess

#stranger things #st4 #stranger things 4 #will byers #mike wheeler #joyce byers #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #karen wheeler #ted wheeler #eddie munson #steve harrington #jim hopper #martin brenner #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #erica sinclair #dustin henderson #bob stranger things #murray bauman #powell stranger things #robin buckley #alexei stranger things #bruh bruh #14 hours to go

[labyriinths]

@ttrgrl​​ Jake & Haley ~ 

Jake wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand as he cleaned the oil off of his fingers. He’d been looking for a small part time job so he could save some pocket money. He wanted to take a trip out to Nashville in the Summer and there was no way he was going to afford it with allowance alone. He’d go for a full time job, but he was committed to the basketball team, and this wasn’t a life or death situation. Jake just wanted to see the place. If it was anything like what he’s read about, he knew he would be inspired by greatness. 

He was about to head off when he realized Lucas had left him a book to give to Haley. He’d almost forgotten he offered his courier services because he had to pass by Karen’s cafe to grab some pastries for his mom’s book club. He’d only just started getting to know Lucas through Keith and it appeared now he was going to meet this Haley girl too. Picking up the book, he got into his gently used and faded navy blue vw golf, and headed over to Karen’s.

Parking parallel to the entrance, he got out and made sure one more time he was clean around his hands, and a quick glance to the mirror for his face. Noticing a small dirt stain on his cheek he rummaged the car looking for a rag or something and found one of his gym towels. Wiping a few times, he decided that was decent and respectable enough that he got out of the car, and strolled into the café. After politely greeting her, he reiterated the order to Karen, and as he waited for it, he asked about Haley. Just then he saw a brunette girl with a bus pan clearing some dishes from the table that had just left. He smiled at Karen’s nod over there, and half laughed as if to say ‘oh right.’. 

“Haley James?” he asked, offering up the book. “We’ve never met, I’m Jake. I work with Lucas over at Keith’s. He had to head out early and asked me to bring this over to you.”  he glanced at the title, then over to her. “Fahrenheit 451. It’s a classic.”

#muse jake #ttrgrl #JJ || ¿What if? ◇ Au Verse #} lmk if you need me to change anything :D

[beezeekneezee]

Daisy pt.1

CW: description of su*c*de/Character death/guns

My brothers and I were always an inseparable trio. From some of my earliest memories my twin brother Matteo and I had never been apart. At some points we resented each other for it, and eventually we came to terms that this is how our life would be. We bonded over things like the need for a nickname, hating our younger brother, and playing with chalk. In 1986 we had recently moved to Souix City from Minneapolis. My dad had met my mom in a placement for his job in Minneapolis, and then got relocated to the city which conveniently housed my father’s side of the family.

Matteo had run past me and pushed the decorative door to the welcoming building in front of me open. He happily exclaimed as he ran straight into the building, further worsening my mood. When I entered the doorway, I said quiet hellos to the people around me. My grandma, whom we called Nona per her request, was sitting in her small reclining chair working on a doily. Our parents shortly walked in after us, holding the source of my sour mood. Swaddled away in a scarf tied securely around my mothers front was a fat, red-faced infant. My anger only swelled as my very own Nona rose from her seat beaming ear to ear, only to sweep past me and walk straight to my mother.

“Oh, Agnays he’s so strong!” Nona said, wasting no time mispronouncing my mother’s German name.

            “Thank you Gionna- “

That was all their conversation I had needed to hear. I had walked away and as soon as I could I was out the back door. I sat of the steps of my Nonas small porch, knees tucked into my chin as hot and bitter tears rolled down my face. I was an angry and brooding five-year-old, picking at the nails on my hands. I had broken about three nails and picked the ends of them off as Matteo came up to me.

            “Why are you mad Ri?” he asked poking my knees with a long stick.

            “M’ not mad but I’m warning you, mamas gonna sell us to buy diaper pins.” I mumbled back.

            Matteo looked up and me and said, “That’s stupid Rita”. I was as angry as ever when I picked up a small rock and chucked it at his face. Naraly dodging the stone, he looked at me with a smile before running over to the small shed near the dirt driveway.

            “POP! POP!” He yelled, which garnered the response of a panicked old man running out of it.

            “What boy?” He asked in a tone that more resembled a shout than a question.

“Margherita threw rocks at my face!” Matteo said, making sure to throw his arms in the air. His gaze snapped to me as my eyes shot daggers into the back of my brothers head.

            “He’s lying Pop!” I lied.

Later that day I got the ass beating of a lifetime. Today on the other hand, nine years later, in the same house, there was stale air. The distant smell of wood-chips, motor oil, and tobacco chew hung low. The house was silent, as the beautifully decorated door opened slowly. More of my unknown aunts, uncles, and cousins had arrived. They did not truly matter to me. What mattered to me today was that Nona was officially gone. Three days ago, Nona had woken up and decided that she could not go on. She had found one of Pops unused rifles and ended her life. We had to go to the service today. Earlier that day everyone in my family had packed into the family car to drive to Nonas and search her house one final time. None of us were surprised when family we hadn’t seen in a while, or even known in the first place had shown up.

“Fuckin’ vultures” My Papa had said.

Mama nodded her head quietly in agreement as we all decided to take what we could and leave. I was told to grab recipes and sentimental photos, what Matt had been told to go search Pop’s shed. Mama searched Nonas room with Luca, the youngest. Papa had just lurked and watched the others in the house, waiting to see who’d take what. No one had dared to enter her basement, though the cleaning men said it was safe to. After a solid half hour, we all met at the bronco. I had a stack of recipes, notebooks, picture albums, and loose photos in my hands. I handed them to Papa as he started stacking things into the trunk. Once everything was in the truck, we went to the funeral. Nona was a devout catholic. The only thing this meant was that the service was going to be long, boring, and rigid. They decided to have her funeral along with a mass ceremony. This meant that the funeral was the hour that mass was, along with however long they wanted to do visitation and her funeral.

            Two painfully long hours later, they put her in the ground. She had four children, and my Papa was the only one to show up. She was a wonderful woman, but somehow, she raised three out of four to be ungrateful snotnosed pricks. My black ringlets blew in the wind. I tucked them behind my ears. She would have wanted them kept up; she loved my hair. It was the only thing of my mother’s that I had inherited. Every time she saw me, shed cup my face with her frail shaky hands, tuck my curly hair behind my ears, and say Margherita you are beauty like your momma. My fists clenched as tears welled in my eyes and my face wrinkled up, a deep frown settling on my lips. I looked over at Matt and he had almost the same expression. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes down, nose crinkled, and the most disappointed frown I have seen on a person.

            We had both dressed how she would have wanted to see us. I had put on light makeup, a classy knee length dress, white socks, and flat shoes. My hair would have been neatly styled just how she liked it if it wasn’t for the wind. Matt had a neat black suit on with a magnolia in his lapel. I recognized why almost immediately. She had always told him about magnolias. How ancient and strong they are. You’re my magnolia, you can be strong for me. She had always told him. Nona had always loved flowers. We all had a flower. I was her daisy, You know your name means daisy, don’t you? Matt was her magnolia, Luca was her lily, Mama was her peony, and Papa was her poppy. Right now, she was our rose. Every rose that we laid with her was a memory of her. The ride home was quiet. We had stayed there with her until she was in the ground.

The next few weeks were a hard adjustment. We had been to Nonas and Pops almost every day. Pop had died long before Nona and she had never been the same. We all expected this someday, though she had been nothing but tender and loving to me and my brothers. She never recovered after Pops death; I couldn’t blame her for it. I’d always thought to myself what it’d be like to lose someone that close. I didn’t even think I would have known how that felt even if my parents died. I would never know what she was feeling, and that weighed down my mind for months.

Three months after she had died, we had finally started to sift through all of her belongings that we had taken from her house the day of the funeral. Mama and I sat on the carpet that separated us from the hardwood floor of our house. Photo albums and pictures were spread across the floor. The pictures were grainy, black and white, and then eventually film. We hadn’t gotten to take pictures of her with our new digital camera. We had known a lot of the people in the photographs immediately, some we had to ask Papa about. We had gotten through all of her photo albums when we had gotten to the very last page of the very last album. As I stood up to put the album away a small, folded picture slipped out from behind the inner lining of the back cover. This photo was of five men, and two babies. The man in the middle was my Pop, but I didn’t recognize the other four. The babies on the other hand, were unmistakably Matt and I. Pop was smiling back at the camera the man on his left holding the infant with a head full of black curly hair, the one to his left holding the infant with thin, straight, black hair. Mama looked at the picture, clearly puzzled because of its odd nature. She hopped to her feet and brought the picture over to Papa.

“Hey Dante, do you know who these people are?”

I on the other hand, was not so curious. I finished putting the albums away and went off to go bug Matteo.

            I was grateful that the next few months weren’t very eventful. All that had happened was Matt and I had officially started high school. I was happy that the next couple months would have the same routine. Every day all three of us would wake up early, pack up, get ready to leave, and then walk over to school after dropping Luca at the elementary school. After school, we’d stay over a bit to finish our homework, walk to the elementary school to pick up Luca, and then go to Nona’s house. We owned Nona’s for a while, she had left the house to us in her will. In Nonas backyard, behind Pop’s shed, there was a thick layer of brush. For years when we would come to the house we would play back there. Every single day we would be either in the dirt, or in the bushes. Every day now, we would come back to this very backyard. We’d push further and further through the brush, past the weeds that stained our hands and got us in trouble, to a break in the trees. We had broken into Pop’s shed, which really had gotten us in trouble, and found a long knife. Matt had taken the hatchet looking tool and cleared a small spot in between some fallen leaves where we would hang out. He had dropped the blade behind a bush, to hide it for next time we needed it.

            The only true flaw in this plan was that I had to keep tabs on Luca. Right now, he was nine and we were fourteen. We could have walked him home but that would have been way too much work, and plus he was funny sometimes. I had pulled out snacks from my backpack that I’d stolen from the corner store last time Mama sent us to buy some groceries. I handed them each a twinkie and a Ziploc baggie of potato chips sitting down on the log of a downed tree.

            “How’d you get these?” Matteo teased, I frowned.

            “None of your business freak” I said back, a bit more rudely than I’d intended.

            “Be careful calling people names, you wouldn’t want me to tell Mama would you?” he had an ugly, smug smile on his face.

            “Be careful before I bust your ugly teeth in.” I stood up to size up to him.

I had always been a fighter, I hated talking and I’d truthfully rather just punch someone in the face than ‘talk it out’. Matt had always known this and was often the victim of these outbursts growing up.

            “You know you can’t, Mama would beat your- “

Matt was cut off by an ear splitting, guttural scream. “HOLY FUCK!” I yelled jumping and covering my ears. Matt and Luca were quick to follow my motions. Luca looked up at me crying. The scream went on for entirely too long, nearing two or three minutes. As soon as the screaming subsided, I jumped up shoving all of my belongings into my backpack putting it on facing forward, picking up Luca by his fat, kid arms and slung him across my back.

“C’mon Matt we gotta get the fuck out of here!”

“No shit genius!” he yelled back at me.

Luca popped me on the back of my head for cursing as I ran with him on my back,. His face was tucked into my hair, and his arms choked me as he clung onto my back. I pushed past the bushes and the berries, staining my hands a bright magenta. Matt following close behind us. I ran straight to the back door; I had a key in case of emergencies. I unlocked Nona’s door and Matteo ran into the back door, after tripping up the porch steps. After Luca and I got into her house, I immediately locked the door behind us, and deadbolted it.

            “Go make sure all of the doors are locked, I’ll get the windows.” I yelled at Matt.

I heard a distant Got it! From the front room. Nona’s house was huge. I left Luca standing in the kitchen, where I knew the doors were locked, and went to rattle every single window, and lock them. Once I locked all of the windows, I found Nona’s landline. I hoped it still worked; I didn’t know If they had disconnected it yet. With shaking hands, I dialed our number hoping and praying that It’d go through. Mama could have been home by now; Papa wouldn’t have been home though. Please.. Please. Please work I pleaded under my breath. It went through but wasn’t picked up. “SHIT!” I yelled crying as I slammed the phone down. I yelled over to Matt “Phone’s not working!” and in a response I got back an exasperated Motherfucker!

            Just as I heard his response, It was cut off by another scream. It was muffled from the house. This scream continued for roughly another two minutes. It scared me, no one could scream for that long. I ran to the kitchen and wrapped my arms around Luca. He was covering his ears, sobbing. I held his head close to me, hand protectively on the back of his head. “It’s okay Lu.” I said, trying my best to convince myself. I was scared. It was nearing Seven O’ clock In September and the sun was starting to get a little too low in the sky. When the scream finally stopped I let go of Luca, who stood there not moving. I grabbed his hand, and after some coaxing, he followed me to Matt in the front room. Matt was on the floor, crying, with Nona’s rosary tucked into his hands. I looked down at him and had Luca sit next to him. I ran into the kitchen. I peeked outside, looking to see if I could see anyone. Sunset had just begun. The sky faded into an unsettling hue of orange and red. If I was going to do this, I needed to do it now.

            I grabbed the biggest knife I could find out of Nona’s kitchen. I peeked out the glass of the back door and yelled back to Matt, “Matteo come here!” I heard both of my brothers jump up and run to the kitchen. I told them my plan. “Okay so, I’m going to run out to Pop’s shed. He keeps guns in there. I’m gonna get a gun okay? Stay in here with Lu and lock the door as soon as I’m out. Don’t unlock it until I am here. Okay? Do not, under any circumstance, leave Lu alone. Stay right here and stay right next to him. If you hear it again cover his ears.” I told Matteo, while looking through Nona’s junk drawer to find a small pair of wire cutters. These will have to do. I thought to myself, looking outside to the barn’s lock. I might not be able to cut it. I locked eyes with my twin, nodded at him, unlocked the door, and ran out. I mouthed the words Lock it through the glass to him, who nodded. I heard the click of the lock and moved as fast and as quiet as I could over to Pop’s barn. I put my knife on the ground and took the wire cutters, putting them up to the metal of the master lock. I struggled to cut through the metal of the lock, pressing my entire body weight into the wire cutters until I heard a loud crack. The lock dropped, booming in its wake. I panicked, dropped the bolt cutters and picked up my knife. I ran into the barn, sifting and searching through all of Pop’s stuff. I eventually grabbed a rifle, which was sitting on his worktable, and a handgun. I thought to myself that Matt could probably use it. I grabbed some spare ammunition as something new caught my eye. I had been sifting through drawers on his table, when an odd notebook caught my eye. It was a broken-down journal, which had been covered in an odd leather-like material.

            Just as I picked it up I turned to leave the barn. That when I saw it. I saw something. It wasn’t a person; it was too tall for that. This creature was all black and had a green hue to it. Its skin was peeling and flaking away as it stood in front of me. I didn’t know what it was. It was well over seven foot tall and towered well over me. Its ribcage lifted high above its hips. Bones protruding sharply from its sides. Its abdomen caved in sharply causing a noticeable distinction of what was bone and what was just skin. It had once had eyes but never a nose. Its eyes had large scars that replaced them. There was no spot for a nose, and its mouth hung slack. Sharp protruding bones stuck out from its gums. Its long, emaciated arms lowered to the ground as it hunched down. It’s jaw lowered more as it reared back and let out the splitting scream which we’d heard twice before. Before I knew it I was running. I had dropped the knife in favor of the firearms in my clutch. I got to the back porch safely, and dropped all that was in my arms. The guns and notebooks hit the ground as I pounded on the back door as I tried to scream over the noise of the monster. Luckily, Matt was right where I had left him, scrambling to unlock the door between us. As soon as the door was open, I was inside reaching out to gather all I had dropped. I locked the door behind me, deadbolting it again. When the noise had subsided I looked back out, there were more things out there, four men started walking out of the woods, silently creeping forward. They stopped halfway between the woods and the porch steps.

            Matteo looked out and saw the creature off to the side of the yard and paused. Running away from the kitchen had gone to dial home again, this time he reached the other line. Someone had picked it up at our house. It wasn’t Mama though. All he heard was static for a couple seconds. Then it was breathing, then it was screaming. I grabbed the phone out of his hands in a panic, trying to get the noise to stop. Lu cried loudly as I busted the phone against the wall. As the impulsivity of my actions dawned on me, I realized that I had just broken our only form of communication to outside the house. My hands covered my mouth as Matt stared at me, terrified. Before anyone could have addressed the fact that I just doomed us to die in this house, I heard glass break. My heart sank to my toes, and I could feel myself going pale. I panicked; I didn’t know what to do.

I did the only thing that I could think to do, I grabbed the rifle near me and looked at Matteo. “Go upstairs. Take Lu.” I ordered. He stared at me for a split second and then realized I truly meant it. Matteo grabbed the handgun that I had given him. He scooped Luca up and took off running. I grabbed a nearby rubber band and used it to rake my hair out of my face. I loaded the rifle and put extra ammunition in the pockets of my dress, just as I heard the back door open. I tried to think of the best place to be for this fight. I wished that Luca was somewhere else. I needed backup, but I knew Matt had to keep him safe.

            The first man to enter the house was dead I thought to myself.I knew what I had to do, and I was ready to do it. As soon as he came into my sight the deed was done. I had pulled the trigger. The man fell back, he didn’t even yell. It made me sick to my stomach. Two other men came running to the dead man. Their gaze snapped up at me. I knew who they were immediately. These were the men that held me and Matteo in the grainy photograph that I had seen months ago. They were now adorned in black cloaks with a green hue that resembled that of the monster. Tears welled in my eyes as I reloaded the rifle in my hands. Aiming right at the men, I sobbed as I pulled the trigger yet again. Killing one man on impact, and only injuring the other. He screamed in pain, as I sobbed. My hands were shaking as I tried to reload once more. I took one more shot, and then my limited resources were gone. I had nothing left to reload, and I had just missed the man in front of me. Panicked, desperately looking for the closest thing I could to finish the second man off. As I was looking, the man had gotten up from his downed position and lunged himself on top of me. We fell backwards and I hit my head on the kitchen tile. I think it might have split some of my skin open on the back of my head. I tried to push him off of me, but he was a big man, over six foot tall, and I was scrawny and short. I did the only other thing of which I could think. I screamed upstairs towards my brothers. “Matteo! Matt! I need help!” I did need help. I desperately needed help and I hadn’t heard him use his gun.

            After about 10 seconds of struggling, I heard Matt come flying down the staircase. I was screaming on the ground as the man tried to push his thumbs into my eyes. “HELP ME! OH MY GOD HELP ME!” I was starting to go hoarse as I was screaming as loud as I could. Just as he could get me completely pinned down Matteo came by, kicking the man square in the ear. His eardrum burst, throwing him off of me. The injured man wailed in pain only to be interrupted by the loud, ringing noise of a gunshot. He’d stopped screaming. I didn’t look over; I didn’t even move from where I was. I just reached to the back of my head, where I felt the warm blood that dripped into my hair. I wiped in on the skirt of my dress, staining the delicate green material a deep brown red. There was still one more man out there. After that there was the monster. It reminded us of itself when we heard the piercing scream. Standing up and rubbing my eyes where, the man was just pressing, I felt the nausea that I was suppressing hit me with full force. I doubled over. Gaining my balance again, I heard something that made my blood to ice. Luca had screamed at the top of his lungs. Just as I heard this I realized that I had not seen the last man. Matteo looked at me and said, “you go get him, Ill watch out for the thing.” As soon as his sentence ended I was ready, I searched the kitchen and grabbed the best weapon I could see. Kitchen knife in hand I ran up the steps.

            I busted through the door of Nona’s bedroom to see the back of the black cloaked man. I could hear Lu screaming and crying. The man had him in a headlock as Luca flailed his short arms, grabbing and scratching at the arms around him. I jumped on the man’s back and bit his arm. I bit down as hard as I could, and I did not let go. I didn’t let go until I felt the skin give. The man screamed, dropping Luca and reaching up to grab a handful of my hair. He pulled hard enough to hoist me over his shoulder and throw me to the ground. I screamed as I hit the hardwood dropping on my arm. I couldn’t move my left arm. It hung limp to my side. With the knife in my right hand, I lunged at him and sunk it deep into his side pulling with all of my bodyweight. I tried to drag it as far as I could before he swung at me again. He hit me square in the jaw knocking me off of my feet. With only one working arm, I struggled to stand up again. I searched the room in a panic looking for anything to injure the man in front of me. Luca had wormed his way underneath Nona’s bed, hiding as best as he could. The man started walking towards me, as I started to become frantic. I started ripping open drawers next to Nona’s bed. The man reached up to grab my hair once more, just as I found Nona’s small, loaded handgun.  I mustered as much confidence as I could and lifted my working arm. I shot him point blank. I closed my eyes before pulling the trigger, hearing him drop, and Luca scream. The last thing I heard was Matteo, yelling up at me. RITA ITS HERE Followed by the pop of his handgun.

I woke up alone. The first thing that I saw was bright lights and the first thing I felt was hot, searing pain where my arm sat in a sling. I didn’t know where I was, all I could do was yell. I yelled until someone came running.

            “Margherita!”

It was Papa. I’ve never felt more relief in my life. I felt him wrap his arms around me and something broke in me. I held onto him and sobbed. I heaved and cried, harder than I ever had. All of the memories hit me like a truck. I didn’t know what day it was anymore; I didn’t know where Luca was, and I didn’t know if Matteo was alive. Once I had gotten my sobbing under control I finally asked Papa. “where are they? Where’s Mama?” The look that Papa responded with made my heart sink.

            I stood there, grasping Lucas hand In my right, left arm still stuck in a sling. We were back to where we started, watching someone be lowered into the ground. The only difference is that today there were two. Papa stood next to me, his hand resting on my shoulder. I woke up two days after that night. Later that day, they found Matteo. Mama had died in our home the night of the attack. Needless to say, Papa, Luca, and I moved back to Minneapolis. That is where we buried Mama and Matteo. I looked up at their tombstone. The thought of it made me feel sick. Their coffins were covered in magnolias and peonies. I took one of each to preserve. When I had gotten to our apartment, I was sifting through my books trying to find the heaviest book to press the flowers. I paused when my eyes laid on the notebook from that night. Pop’s odd leather notebook. I looked in it, god I wish I hadn’t. What I had seen horrified me. All of the pages were covered with drawings of the creature and the names Matteo, Luca, Agnes, Margherita, and Gionna. As I flipped through the pages, I came across the end of the book. There was the same picture of the five men and two babies that was in Nona’s photo albums. I slowly worked my way through the notebook as the months went by. He was the reason all of this happened. I’d never been happier that he’s dead, or I would have killed him myself.

#my writing #writing #horror #horror stories #horror short #creative writing #cult

[lucasproducts]

Lucas-Cide Cleaners FAQs: Answers to Your Frequently Asked Questions

Why is Lucas-Cide Thyme a great cleaner?

Lucas-Cide Thyme is a powerful disinfectant made from natural thyme oil. It effectively kills germs, bacteria, viruses, and fungi. This non-toxic and environmentally friendly cleaner, including salons, can be used in almost any space. It provides a safe and effective way to keep high-traffic areas clean and sanitary.

How does Lucas-Cide Thyme work?

Lucas-Cide Thyme is one of our natural cleaning products that's tough on microbes. Lucas-Cide Thyme works by breaking down the outer membrane of microorganisms, leading to their destruction. The active ingredient in Thyme, known as Thymol, attacks the cell walls of bacteria and viruses, which kills them.

Is Lucas-Cide Thyme safe to use?

Yes, Lucas-Cide Thyme is safe to use. The natural thyme oil used in the formula is non-toxic and poses no risks to humans or pets. It's one of our green cleaners you can use almost anywhere.

What is Lucas-Cide TB?

Lucas-Cide TB is a hospital-grade disinfectant and cleaner. It is specifically designed to be effective against tuberculosis bacteria and other viruses and bacteria commonly found in public areas. This powerful formula ensures that most surfaces are thoroughly disinfected, reducing the risk of spreading infections.

Can I use Lucas-Cide TB at a Salon?

Yes, you can use Lucas-Cide TB at a salon. This is especially useful if you have customers or workers with weakened immune systems or want to ensure thorough disinfection during increased illness activity, such as during a flu season or pandemic.

What does Lucas-Cide CA kill and clean?

Lucas-Cide CA is a multi-purpose cleaner and disinfectant. It is effective against a wide range of germs, including Staphylococcus aureus, Salmonella, E. coli, and more. This versatile cleaner can be used on various surfaces, such as countertops, floors, walls, and equipment. It provides a convenient way to maintain a clean space in commercial settings. It's a powerful cleaner you can use almost anywhere.

Can I use Lucas-Cide CA on electronics?

Yes, Lucas-Cide CA can be safely used on electronics. It is designed to be safe to use on various surfaces, including electronics, without causing any damage. This allows you to keep your devices clean and germ-free without damaging them.

Why are Lucas-Cide Wipes Convenient?

Lucas-Cide Wipes are ready to use wipes that are formulated with Lucas-Cide CA disinfectant solution. These wipes offer a convenient and portable way to disinfect surfaces. They can be used in various settings, such as offices, classrooms, gyms, and even traveling.

Is Lucas-cide Thyme safe to use without gloves?

Lucas-Cide Thyme is an EPA category IV disinfectant. As our greenest disinfectant, it is highly biodegradable and requires no PPE when using it – including gloves! This herbal thyme-based product is designed to quickly disinfect surfaces in spas and salons.

Sources

Source URL:- https://sites.google.com/view/lucasproducts09/home

[mercaritee]

Far from his old days as a punk rocker with a dirt bike, going against trends and stereotypes, freestyle motocross star Brian Deegan’s life has come full circle. enough. enough. The father of three young children – Hailey, Haiden and Hudson – Deegan regularly participates in mini bike tracks or weekend races because his older son, Haiden, is following in his father’s footsteps by riding his dirt bike. figure and kart racing.

Hanging out with other mini dads, dialing in mini-bikes and packing gates has become life for the 14-time X Games medalist, four-time off-road truck racing champion and two-time racer of the Lucas Oil Off Road Racing series. five recipients.

Appreciative of his past, he loves the Brian Deegan Ghostride La Coliseum ’97 Signature Shirt fundamentals that auto racing provides young people and, more specifically, how it prepares them to be good players in the game. living. besides bicycles.

Motocross is not an easy sport and to win you have to be ready and work hard. The fundamentals of success in cycling determine who a cyclist will be, and seeing his child succeed is the most rewarding thing for Deegan.

#xtremeshirt #berrylittles #mercaritee

[tedatind]

AutoSportRadio.com 2023 Show for June 25th - Guests; Kasey Coler and Kody Swanson

The Autosportradio.com 2023 Show for July 25th which was recorded in front of a live audience at Green Street Pub and Eatery, 911 N. Green Street in Brownsburg will have its broadcast release on Sunday, July 30th.  Check it out here, or on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Rumble, and Tumblr, or just look it up at the AutoSportRadio.com website. 

Guests...

* Kasey Coler                                              

Pavement open-wheel racing owes much to Kasey Coler, the general manager at Lucas Oil Indianapolis Raceway Park, and the unlikely architect for the rebirth of an entire discipline in the Midwest.

The reimagined Hoosier Hundred, now a pavement race won by Bobby Santos III over Memorial Day weekend, was just the latest victory by Coler in his efforts to revitalize pavement Sprint Cars, Midgets, and the USAC Silver Crown series. The track crowns a yearlong ‘AJ Foyt Championship that combines all the divisions into one championship.

The field size has nearly doubled for all three divisions during his time promoting the 0.686-mile oval just outside of Indianapolis and that is to say nothing of the return of the NASCAR Craftsman Truck Series last summer.

The crazy part of considering the recent success of the oval is that the track isn’t even one of his primary responsibilities. The general manager title is just part and parcel of his role as NHRA Vice President of Track Management and Operations. He only operates the short track by its existence alongside one of the crown jewel NHRA facilities where his office just happens to be located.

Coler says the short oval amounts to roughly 30 percent of his duties, albeit with a caveat.

 *Kody Swanson            

For Kody Swanson, on Thursday night, July 20th at Winchester (Ind.) Speedway served as a place to go back-to-back in a myriad of manners.

The victory was his second consecutive in USAC Silver Crown competition after winning the most recent round at Wisconsin’s Madison International Speedway in June, marking the 13th occasion in which he’s won two-straight series main events in his career with the series.

Furthermore, the triumph was the second occasion in a row in which he performed a complete sweep by recording the fastest time in both Dirt Draft Practice and Honest Abe Roofing Qualifying before going on to lead all 100 laps en route to victory.

Finally, and perhaps most impressively, it was Swanson’s second straight win at the 31st running of the Rich Vogler Classic Presented by The Pallet Builder, backing up a similarly dominant run from the pole position in 2022 in which he also completely swept the night.

#AutoSportRadio #indycar #usac racing #NHRA #IRP #Motorsports

[mmiley99]

Catch the Jet October 1st at the Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series Pittsburgher (at Pittsburgh's Pennsylvania Motor Speedway) https://www.instagram.com/p/ChfICpgL3TM/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[elpatorojo]

Más de 300 mil dólares en Florence Speedway en agosto.

Más de 300 mil dólares en Florence Speedway en agosto.

La bolsa más rica que se ha ofrecido en el Florence Speedway para el 40th Annual Sunoco North/South supera ya los 300 mil dólares y se disputarán del 11 al 13 de agosto en este circuito de Kentucky y que forma parte del Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series. Cerca de 30 extraordinarios pilotos forman parte de este que es uno de los seriales de pista mas importantes en la Unión Americana y en este…

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[motosurplus]

MAVTV 2022 Live Events Broadcast Schedule - Motor Sports NewsWire - Motor Sports Newswire

MAVTV 2022 Live Events Broadcast Schedule – Motor Sports NewsWire – Motor Sports Newswire

CORONA, CA – February 18, 2022 – (Motor Sports NewsWire) – This year is set to be one of the most exciting years in the world of motorsports with MAVTV Motorsports Network broadcasting 65 live action-packed events directly to your devices. The Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series, powered by near 900-horsepower engines, made its debut in January and will air 40 overall events through October. The 500…

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[sarah-stuff]

Jonathan Davenport Net Worth

Jonathan Davenport Net Worth

Who is Jonathan Davenport: Jonathan Davenport is a professional racing driver who competes in the United Pro Late Model Series. He was born in Ashland, Alabama in 1992, and began racing at the age of 10. Davenport has competed in a variety of racing series, including the Lucas Oil Late Model Dirt Series, the United Sprint Car Series, and the World of Outlaws Late Model Series. Early Life of…

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[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

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

[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.

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