#benoit blanc x y/n
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𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐭 || 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐢𝐭 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜 𝐱 𝐅!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
IMPORTANT! This fic was written with ONLY Knives Out as it’s source material, I haven’t yet seen Glass Onion. I have since been made aware 1000+ words into this fic that Benoit is gay as of the second film. I didn’t want what I had to go to waste. This is the only time I will write for him in a m x f relationship.
Summary: You introduce Private Investigator Benoit to Cluedo
Word Count: 3.1K
CW: FEMALE READER. Please see explanation above. sassy Benoit. Vague references to a mild age gap relationship, easter egg references to Knives Out film 🤭 Nylon Kink. A bit of knife play. Oral, f receiving.
Tease: “On the contrary,” he answers you with a playful lilt to his drawl, slowly sinking to his knees before you, “I intend to stay right here.”
“You’ve never played Cluedo?!”
Shock permeates each syllable of your parroted sentence, your jaw slack as you stare at your partner with complete incredulity. Benoit, in turn, peers vacantly at you like you’ve said something ridiculously dense.
“Ain’t that what I just said?” He asks you, his monotonous voice lacking any true irritation as he taps the ashes of his cigar into the ashtray on the coffee table between you.
“Nah, we’ve gotta fix that,” you insist, slapping your palms on your knees before raising from your armchair. Benoit peers over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses, and his icy-blue eyes follow your body across the room.
“Now— Dear, you’ve worked a long shift; you can’t be runnin’ around playin’ detective with me,” he tries to reason with you, attempts to talk you down from the inevitable shitshow that was no doubt about to unfold in the shape of solution cards and miniature murder weapon props. It’s all fruitless, though, because you’re sweeping aside Benoit’s beloved ashtray and ignoring his protestations as you drop the board game’s box onto the coffee table.
Yes, you’d slogged a nine-hour shift and hadn’t had time to change into less formal attire. Your pencil skirt bunches up your thighs, and the button-down blouse collar lies taut against your throat. Hell, your nude tights are beginning to itch too, but you’re far too invested in this ridiculous adventure and refuse to turn back at the sound of Benoit’s listless objections.
“Here we go,” you mumble to yourself, sliding the lid off the cardboard box and electing to ignore the heavy sigh that Benoit hopelessly attempts to conceal. He leans forward to put out his cigar in the ashtray you had unceremoniously discarded on the wooden floor, eyeing you as you set out the board game items and distribute each piece evenly.
“Who would you like to play as?” You ask, offering out the coloured tokens in your outstretched palm.
Benoit peers at each of the six shades of plastic pawn figurines, his expression betraying his evident discontent. “You know I do this for a livin’, don’t you, Dear?”
Your scowl in retaliation to his query has Benoit snatching up the green token from your hand and setting it on his end of the table. Again you smile as though he’d never spoken and choose red for yourself. Reverend Green and Miss Scarlett.
Carefully, you shuffle the weapon, suspect, and room card decks. Then, as discreetly as possible, take the top card from each pile and put them into the murder envelope without peeking at the details on the other side.
Finally, ignoring the obnoxious sighs rattling in Benoit’s chest, you hand out the Clue cards. Five cards each for you and Benoit, four apiece for the pair of ghost hands; purple and blue. You pinch the dice between your forefinger and thumb, holding it in front of your lover's face. “Odd for purple, even for blue. Got it?”
“Got it,” he responds, clearly finding the process tedious already but suffering through for you. Your eyes are alight with excitement, a grin permanently fixed on your lips. How was he to say no? In fact, he found himself amused by your enthusiasm to understand his line of work— even if it was through juvenile means.
“Alright!” You giggle, rolling the dice to move your scarlet pawn token forward. “Let’s begin!”
-✩-
Chimes sound from the mahogany grandfather clock situated in the corner of Benoit’s living room. They’re almost deafening in the silence that has befallen the coffee table. Although it feels like moments, you realise the minute hand has completed a revolution of the face of the timepiece — You’ve been playing for an hour. You’re no closer to identifying the killer than you were sixty minutes ago.
Benoit appears bored to tears, chain-smoking cigars and even leaves his seat at one point to obtain a glass of whiskey. To the amusement of both of you, you hadn’t noticed his absence, too wrapped up in the game to realise he’d gone AWOL.
“Now, Darlin’,” he begins, cutting both the stillness of the room and your acute concentration with his southern drawl. “Don’t you think it’s time we called it a night? It’s gettin’ awfully late—“
“Benoit,” you whine petulantly, noting the wince it earns you from the older man. He certainly looks like he’d acquired a few more silver hairs since you began this wretched game. “I want to finish it.”
“Mhmm…” Benoit pushes his spectacles up his nose, glancing over the board with mirth, “I knew a man who wouldn’t admit defeat in a board game. Know what happened?”
You glance up at him, eyebrow raised in question.
“He died.”
“Benoit!”
Exasperated, Benoit turns his black cards over, revealing his weapon, room and character. He raises his hands in defeat, settling back in his seat and officially ruling himself out of the game. “There, you only gotta look at two suspects… You're not much of a detective, are you?”
“You‘ve solved it already, haven’t you?!” You gasp, looking up at him with wide doe-eyes and dismay. He answers with a firm nod of his head. Perhaps it was foolish of you, but you really thought you’d established egalitarianism with a board game. “Well, go on, how did you know?”
Benoit inhales, opening his mouth to speak and finally put an end to this ridiculousness. “Well, now, I—“
“Wait!” you shout out, holding a hand up as though it would physically restrain the syllables of his deduction from leaving his lips. “I’ll figure it out myself!”
Sullenly, Benoit sinks back into his armchair, admitting defeat and allowing you to play out your inspector fantasy. He pouts for a few moments, watching you furiously exert your mind with the evidence before dragging his gaze over your uniform.
A quiet man, reticent in nature, Benoit rarely discussed his appreciation for your work apparel. Yes, the pencil skirt was lovely and hugged your body well, and the blouse accentuated your bodily aesthetics, but it was the tights that really captured his imagination.
In truth, Benoit was fascinated with your nylon wardrobe and could go so far as to say it was somewhat of a sexual preference. A kink. He enjoyed the sleek look they gave your legs, their shine underneath lights. Once, the feel of your stockings in his hand as he held your foot up to aid in fastening one of your heels had set him alight.
Gazing at your legs, folded over one another as you attempted to piece each clue together resentfully, Benoit felt heat rise under his collar. The nude tights you were wearing are perfect, sheen delicate beneath the faux-candelabra light fixtures. There’s not a tear, ladder or hole in sight.
He planned to amend that.
Benoit lifts himself from his seat, skirting the coffee table easily and approaching you with long strides. You momentarily glance up from the clue card in your hand, scowling to yourself as he advances. “So embarrassed with my detective work that you’re retreating to bed, Mr Blanc?”
“On the contrary,” he answers you with a playful lilt to his drawl, slowly sinking to his knees before you, “I intend to stay right here.”
Momentarily, your mind works like an old television with a crooked aerial antenna. Static fizzles between your synapses, and you cannot come up with a retort to Benoit’s cheeky inference.
“Best keep your mind on the case, detective,” he murmurs, palms settling on your ankles and tracing up the sides of your calves, “We wouldn’t want the killer gettin’ away now, would we?”
You swallow thickly, holding the cards with shaking hands as you feel Benoit place a lingering kiss on the inside of your knee. He skirts the tip of his nose up the inside of your thigh, humming softly as he squeezes the meat of your calves in his hands.
Focus. Focus. It couldn’t have been Benoit; he’s rescinded his cards. So, it was one of the Ghost Hands. Blue was suspicious, and you’d already discovered she was carrying a wrench. However, she had a decent alibi… Meanwhile, you had barely anything on Purple.
You roll the dice again, the face showing a two rather than the hand glass you had been hoping for. Gritting your teeth, you attempt to rake over the evidence, only to be interrupted by your vision swimming suddenly.
Benoit’s nose notches against your clit through your tights, his head practically buried beneath the fabric of your skirt. He groans softly, inhaling the scent of your sex. You whimper, the edges of his glasses pressing against the junction of your thigh as he presses a delicate kiss to your slit through your panties.
“Do me a favour, Dear,” he breathes against your thigh, pressing kisses to the nylon fabric. He doesn’t have to state what he wants from you explicitly. Fumbling with clumsy hands, you set the cards down quickly on the armrest and pull the hem of your skirt over your hips to give Benoit better access.
“Much obliged,” he whispers to you, and you can hear the gratuitous smirk playing on his lips. Attempting to ignore him and focus on the cards, you endeavour to read the clue, which is written in plain English. You haven’t yet fully deciphered it, thanks to Benoit’s tinkering.
He has other plans, though, nipping at your skin through the fabric of your tights. You jolt slightly with each bite he gives you, and you can hear him chuckle beneath you.
“Anythin’?” Benoit teases you with a combination of kisses and nibbles trailing up your thigh. It takes a moment for your answer to form on your tongue, toes curling in your heels.
“Mhm- N-Not yet,” you stumble over your words despite your attempt to conceal your evident appreciation for his affections.
“Hmm,” he hums, the rumble in his chest setting your hair on end as he, once again, presses lingering kisses over your panties. “I feel a noose tightenin’.”
Everything inside you freezes, and you’re quick to glance at the miniature weapon icons. The rope lays dead centre of the pile, and you’re forced to reconsider everything. Was Benoit giving you a hint?
Admittedly, you don’t have time to contemplate. As you open your mouth to question him, Benoit sucks on your clit through your panties. Your line of questioning dies in your throat, instead coming out as a strangled ‘Ahhh~’.
As quickly as he offers you the blissful sensation, he’s stealing it away. He pulls back, sitting on his haunches, and you’re blinking back your arousal to see him clearly. “W-Why did you…?”
Benoit hushes you gently with a wicked smile. “I think you should focus on the case.”
Smug bastard.
Filled with the desire for retribution, you cast your eyes back to the clue cards in your hand. They’re slightly creased now due to the tight grip you’re holding them with. You manage to make out the words ‘Name One…’ before a clicking sound pulls your attention away yet again.
The glint of light reflecting off the blade in his hand had your heart seizing. Not in fear, no, but exhilaration. See, Benoit carried the flip knife on his person always. It was less of a weapon for self-defence than a family heirloom, and Benoit never took it out without good reason. Simply asking to see it would not gain you access to the elusive dagger.
Your breath hitches, adrenaline buzzing down your spine.
“Now, hold still,” Benoit insists, impossibly blue eyes gazing up at your face through the lenses of his glasses. You nod quickly, both showing him you are listening and urging him forward with his plan.
You watch as he leans forward, slipping the knife's point into the nylon at your crotch. Utterly motionless, you whimper as your lover pulls the handle upwards and slices through the fragile material with ease.
“Been wantin’ you to keep these fine stockin’s on …” Benoit whispers against your thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh there as he closes the knife with a click and slips it back into his pocket.
“H-Huh?” You tremble beneath his affections, his lips travelling further up the inside of your legs, leaving goosebumps in his wake.
“Case, Detective,” he replies flatly, sliding the pad of his index finger against your slit through the cotton of your panties, “You’re deducin’ a murder weapon— it’s in plain sight.”
“Right,” you nod dumbly, swallowing back your arousal and glancing at the board. The box said the game was suitable for ages eight and up; surely it shouldn’t be this difficult. There had to be evidence you had overlooked. Your notes are settled on the coffee table, and you venture to decipher the evidence as you take up the booklet with trembling hands.
But then Benoit is hooking his finger inside the crotch of your panties, pulling the fabric to the side and exposing your sex. You almost drop the notepad on his head. “How ‘bout you take me through your notes, Dear Detective?”
You would, God, you absolutely would if you could. However, Benoit’s tongue drags against your slit, and your mind goes numb, buzzing as though it has a pins-and-needles sensation. He hums, amusement lilting his voice as he watches you struggle.
Overwhelmed, you completely forget about the game of Cluedo, tilting your head over the back of the chair and sliding your fingers through the greying man’s hair. The notebook falls from your hand, clattering against the wooden floor but you’re already too far gone to care.
Eager to please you further, Benoit is gripping your thighs, lifting them so they settle on his shoulders. The nylon tights rub against his neck this way, and you’re sure it spurs him on because he slides the flat of his tongue over your clit. It jolts your body forward, and that maddening chuckle sounds between your legs again.
“Now, Darlin’,” he croons, and you’re whining due to the lack of friction already, “You be careful. The killer’ll be gettin’ away.”
You choke on an apology, Benoit burying his face into your cunt and sucking at your clit keenly. He’s swirling your clit with the tip of his tongue, one, two, three times, and then dragging over the seam of your sex to lap up your slick.
Not only was the man eloquent, but he was also persuasive with his tongue. Trembling in your seat, you sob out as your muscles tense against it. Your legs twitch against the shoulders of his suit, and you arch your hips up to grind against his face.
“Detective,” he prompts you, and you suck in a breath like you’re coming up for air after being suspended in water. Your eyes roll back, and you try to focus hard on what it is he’s requesting of you.
“Hngg- B-Blue has a go-good alibi—” you let out an obscene whine, the wet noises of his tongue dragging against your soaked pussy diverting you from the task at hand.
“Mhmm?” He hums, and the vibration has you bucking against his face again, sobbing out his name in a broken whimper.
“A-And I’m not sure about Purple!” You squeak out. God, it’s so messy. You’re soaking his face, and you’re sure you can see your slick glossing up his nose and chin. If you stained the seat, you’re not even sure he’d mind; the blues of his eyes engulfed by the black of his pupils.
It’s a wave of pleasure building, teasing at your abdomen and throbbing through you with each pulse of your heart. You inhale deeply, feeling it tease at the edges of your skin. You’re devastated, overpowered by the ecstasy clawing at the base of your spine— you don’t even notice what it is you’re saying.
"I-I-It was the- ohhhh fuck, Benny~" you sob out, tears rolling down your cheeks, “It’s you— Hgnn fuck!-!”
"Hm? Use your words, dear. You're makin' an accusation, you know. Don't want to slip your words now." He’s entertained by your bewilderment, “Especially when the person you’re accusin’ has given you a damn good alibi.”
You’re so far gone that you’re not even embarrassed that you’d just implicated the one person you could be sure wasn’t the killer. Swallowing sobs, you watch as Benoit circles your clit repeatedly with his tongue, eyes staring straight up at you and watching you come apart.
It all happens so fast. Your toes are curling in your shoes as the cramping sensation of your oncoming orgasm takes hold. One of your shoes falls off and clatters to the floor, and Benoit places the flat of his palm against your pubic bone.
“Oh God-!” You choke out, whining as he continues with the devastating pattern he’s drawing. “I’m gonna— Shit, Benny, it’s—“
He’s nodding without removing his mouth from you as though he’s telling you ’I know’. It’s shoving you right off the edge, those beautiful blue eyes blinking slowly and taking in every inch of the image of ecstasy on your face.
It pulses right between your legs, throbbing against his tongue like a pulse. You scream out his name, all of the muscles in your body tensing so hard that you’re cramping. Your vision goes white, and you’re gripping Benoit’s hair so tightly that you’re surprised you don’t rip any out.
You’re suspended for a moment, and then everything melts away, every inch of your body melting against the plush of the seat. Distantly, you recognise the smile against his lips, pressed to your skin.
“… Who was it?” You slur like you’re drunk on the dopamine he’s just overdosed you on. He laughs heartily, and you can’t help but smile with him.
“Blue.”
“Fuck!” You gasp out, palms covering your face and digging your nails into your hairline. As if! “When on earth did you figure that out, Benny?”
He sits back on his knees, pulling the handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiping his chin and nose to remove the slick you had rubbed onto him. “Mhmm… Why, I figured it out the moment you laid out the cards.”
You scoff now, disjointedly sitting up in your chair. The muscles of your arms are like jelly, and you struggle to raise yourself. “Are you that good that you could tell at first glance?”
Again, a smug smile plays at the edge of Benoit’s lips, his eyes flicking up to your face.
“No… I simply saw the cards you drew.”
END
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#benoit blanc#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc x reader#Benoit blanc x y/n#Benoit blanc x f!reader#benoit blanc imagine#Benoit blanc fanfic#Benoit blanc fanfiction#knives out fanfiction#knives out fanfic#knives out#knives out 2#glass onion#Daniel Craig
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Being Benoit Blanc's assistant on a big case headcanons
A/N: Aka being the Watson to Benoit's Sherlock. I'm gonna keep writing headcanons until I have the motivation to write a one-shot. Also x male reader bc Benoit is gay as hell (& I love it)
When you entered Benoit's office for the interview he had to hold back from immediately saying "You're hired." He found himself spacing out a bit, thinking about how adorable you looked when you would ramble about your work history or even just the ride here.
Your first day ended up being the start of a huge case. You thought Benoit was babying you, maybe he was. But he didn't intend to make you feel lesser he got worried with how violent the murder was, so much so that he was afraid you'd get hurt.
When he interviewed each of the family members he had you sit behind him & take notes, making sure to put distance between any possible suspects & you.
The moment the last family member leaves the interview room Benoit turns to you with an excited grin on his face, ready to share theories.
"What do you think about this bunch, Y/N?"
"Hmm, good theory. I didn't think about that one. It's a good thing I have you here, Y/N."
Small note: He loves to say your name, it makes him so happy. Any chance he gets he will use it.
When a fight erupts between the family members he stands in front of you & instinctively grabs your arm/hand.
He ends up ranting to you about being unable to find the "key piece that's missing" & when you lay everything out for him he gets the silly little aha moment.
"Y/N, you did it! Lord, you are so intelligent! How I get so lucky as to work with you?" He yells as he pulls you into a hug, "I'm sorry, I got excited."
"Don't apologize," you pull him right back into a hug & hold him tightly.
You have to point out the dumb clues to him because he is terrible with dumb stuff. It has you absolutely awestruck when he finds some clues though, like solving a puzzle to open a door to a secret room. I swear these things only happen in movies but Benoit manages to find them.
When he pulls a cigar out to smoke, you take it from his mouth & take a breath of smoke. You might not be a smoker but at this rate, you've caught on to him having feelings for you & would kill to see this detective flustered.
Short story, it works.
Long story, he mutters out some southern curses under his breath. He looks up to you as you hand him the cigar back, pink dusting his cheeks & you do your best to repress a smile.
From then on he has a little more pep in his step, constantly telling himself you like him too.
Bonus:
If you do not have a suit Benoit will lend you one of his, you have to look dapper on the job to match your boss.
Bonus points if it's slightly oversized, Benoit would lose his mind.
At that, he's already losing his mind seeing you in his clothes. He has to fight to keep his eyes off you. Whenever your taking notes behind him he finds any opportunity to turn around, look you up & down, & say, "Did you get that, Y/N?" To which, after multiple times you can't help but laugh out of either annoyance or infatuation & breathe out, "Yes, Benoit, I did get that."
If one of the family members or especially suspects takes a jab at you (verbally) he will most definitely go off on them.
A/N: I'm totally going to make a one-shot where the reader gets hurt on the job & Benoit loses his shit!
#benoit blanc#benoit blanc x reader#knives out#glass onion#male reader#gay#lgbt#lgbtq#detective#assistant!reader#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc x y/n#silly little gay detective#netflix
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A Murder, A Nurse, A Case.[B.Blanc/Reader]
Part 1 of A Murder and A Motive
Summary: World’s greatest Detective and his second pair of eyes take on a difficult murder case of secrecy, disguise and revenge.
Pairing: Benoit Blanc [Knives out]/Reader. He/Him pronouns used.
Warnings: Descriptions of death, blood and wounds, abandonment.
Word Count: 1,946
Note: I am aware Benoit Blanc is canonically married but I am ignoring Hugh Grant in this story (rare for me - Paddington 2 is one of my favourite films because of him). Also! I am very not American so if words are off and it ruins the immersion, very sorry!
Not my gif!!
It was a remote farmhouse, far from any major roads and cities. Surrounded by seemingly endless fields and woods, though you could detect a small town nearby from the road signs. Usually, you would never notice a house like this. You would typically drive passed, but with the addition of four police cars, an ambulance, and P.I.‘s on the property, it was hard to ignore. It was a beautiful house still, architecturally stunning.
A chubby, older woman sat on the doorsteps of the house, unable to compose herself though police attempted to calm her. You closed the door to Blanc’s car and took in the stunning scenery and chaotic atmosphere. Another car pulled up swiftly after you, a young woman rushed out of the vehicle as soon as she stopped it and ran to talk to the police and comfort the woman on the steps.
“Blanc, good to see you.” A cop said. Officer West, she was present during a few cases throughout your time with Blanc. “Y/N…nice to see you again.” She said, a smirk on her face. Blanc had stated many times that she was utterly obsessed with you however you chose to ignore him.
“Officer West.” You nodded, and she nodded in return. You walked towards the house door where the two women sat consoling each other. Both women cried now.
“This is Marlene Edwards, James Lee’s primary nurse. She contacted us and told us of his death when she arrived this morning. This is Joanna Lee, the victim's only living relative.” Officer West introduced you to the women, who were obviously beside themselves but staying strong. Marlene Edwards was in her late 60's, she had her dark hair in a neat bun and wore her scrubs just as she usually would. She had dark circles around her eyes, perhaps from crying, perhaps from being an overworked medical worker. Nonetheless, she looked kind.
The other woman, Joanna Lee, was frankly the opposite. She had long ginger hair, which was in a messy ponytail. Her clothes seemed to be the first she picked out, it was only 7:15 A.M. anyway. Pain lined her tearstained face.
“Pleasure to meet the two of you. I’m Detective Benoit Blanc, and this is my assistant Y/N L/N. Perhaps we go inside and talk to you both?” He asked as he shook their hands. They nodded, opening the door and guiding you both through the house.
The house was even more beautiful inside. Each wall was an aged brown with lightly gold details on each corner, and the floor was a dark wood that had a slight creak in some places. It was traditional, simple but not too simple, and obviously an inherited home.
The two women sat in the lounge together, and you sat opposite them with Blanc. The couches were made of dark leather with sage green feather pillows. You enjoyed noticing the small details of the locations of murders, it showed some repeating patterns.
“Now, Marlene, is it? Tell me, when did you arrive here this morning?” Blanc asked her, the victim's daughter held the older woman’s hand tightly to comfort her. You opened your notepad and took a sleek black pen Blanc had gotten you for your birthday from your pocket.
“6:30 A.M, just like every mornin'.” She managed to choke out, Joanna rubbed her back. You scribbled that down in your notebook.
“What time did you find his body, would you say?” He asked, she took a moment to answer.
“Around 6:55 A.M, I don’t remember. I always spruce the place up a bit, make him a coffee and breakfast before he wakes up, then I give him his medicine.” She replied, thinking particularly hard to remember. "I hit a bookshelf when I went to the phone, it's a mess up there."
You wrote carefully and quickly so as to not miss any information. “And what medications was your patient on?” Blanc inquired. You loved the way he was so meticulous about what questions he asked, when to ask them, everything. He was incredibly talented in his work and took great care of the victim's family and friends.
“Lisinopril, a blood pressure medication. Hydrocodone, a pain medication. He’s diabetic, so I test his blood every 2-3 hours and inject insulin when needed.” She told you, she was cooperating perfectly. You wrote down what she had said.
“How many nurses or caretakers have been here in the passed few days?”
“There’s always 2 of us on sight in a day, Sarah, she comes and takes care of his bathing needs and everything like that around 4:30 P.M. Yesterday there was a trainee nurse, his name was, uh, Clark?” That was intriguing. You’d had some background information on the case beforehand and only two caretakers were noted. Marlene Edwards and Sarah-Jane Matthews.
“Tell me more of this Clark," He leaned forward, clearly compelled by this mysterious character.
"He was a young feller, fresh out of school, maybe late 20's? He said he was new and still partly training to care for the elderly. He showed me his work I.D...I didn't even question he could be lyin'. Oh, sweet Jesus." She covered her mouth and realised it was likely to be him, she couldn't help but blame herself for allowing him into his home.
"Don't blame yourself, love. You couldn't have known." You reassured her, sending her a warm smile before returning to your notepad and writing down a possible suspect.
"Thank you, Mrs Edwards. This information could be crucial. I'd like to speak to Miss. Lee alone if that would be okay?" He informed her, she nodded and scurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Miss Lee. I know it is a horrible situation. You’re strong." You prefaced before Blanc could begin. Blanc glared at you and gave you a smile. You took after him in supporting the victim's family members and friends.
“What was your and your father's relationship like?” Blanc asked, she composed herself and thought for a few moments.
“Strong, I’d say. We loved each other and talked every day after I finished work. We’d always have a game of Clue with Marlene and Sarah when I was there, I bet you’re really good at that game.” She laughed slightly, reminiscing on good times with her father.
“He’s terrible.” You mimed at her, and she smiled at that. Talking to people casually was a psychological trick you’d picked up. You used standard English, made jokes when acceptable and spoke to them like you would a friend. They open up and become more comfortable talking.
“Your mother, is sh-” Benoit began before he was cut off my Joanna.
“Margaret Lee. She died when I was 14. Car accident. It took a real toll on Dad. He had Survivor’s Guilt since that day. Always blaming himself. It hurt to watch. He was on Antidepressants for 3 years,” She said. She looked down at her hands for a moment. You sent her an empathetic look, your head bowed down and your eyes closed.
"That must've been very difficult," Blanc said. "Y/N, would you investigate that Trainee Nurse while I talk to Miss Lee?" He asked, you nodded, standing from the couch.
"It was lovely to meet you, Joanna. You're powerful." You shook the woman's hand before she left and gave her kind eyes. You wandered through the house, taking time to indulge in your surroundings. Though the gruesome smell of death lingered through the house, you doubted it was unfamiliar to it. It was aged, and the paint on the walls chipped away from where furniture and frames once were. You saw Officer West and headed towards her.
"Y/N! You alright?" She turned around quickly, two cups of coffee in her hand. "Here, I know it's cold out." She handed you one.
"Thank you. We need to get in contact with whoever is distributing carers here. We have a suspect." You ordered, she gasped slightly. "Clark, no other details other than a young, late 20’s, trainee nurse. He was here yesterday."
"I will get that info for you!"
After 10 minutes of waiting by the door, the tips of your fingers turning blue, Officer West approached you. "There is a Clark, trainee nurse, but he's 45. He was reported in an old folks home yesterday. But get this, when asked, he couldn't find his I.D.!" She told you enthusiastically with a smile. You smiled and nodded.
"Thank you, Officer." You stormed inside, finally feeling warmth against your skin again. "Blanc!" You yelled towards the lounge room, which he was already leaving. "Bad news, the Clark that Mrs Edwards described isn't registered. But, the real Clark is a 45-year-old man whose I.D. is absent from his person. It was stolen."
"My, so we're on a hunt for an unknown individual?" He questioned, you took a pause before nodding uncomfortably. "No leads, nothing."
"Well, we haven't snooped around yet. That's my favourite part," You smiled, walking back towards the stairs. "Shall we?" You raised your hand as you stepped onto the first step. Blanc looked down at your hand and laughed, not taking your hand but walking up the stairs with you still.
"We're not snoopin', Y/N. We're looking for evidence," He reminded you, shooting you disapproving, teasing eyes.
"We're kinda snooping," You mumbled before getting to the upper floor. It was a slight mess, with books scattered across the floor from when Marlene ran to the phone. You kicked some out of the way to make a clear path. You knew which room was James Lee's. The metallic stench of recently shed blood and the linger of death surrounded the doorway. You entered the room.
His sheets were still painted with his blood. You couldn't help but uncomfortably cover your mouth at the horrific sight. It was clear the killer wasn't well-skilled. The walls and floor were splattered with blood. It was a horrific sight to witness. "My lord, they really wanted him dead," You heard Blanc mutter under his breath.
"Seems so. Get to looking," You ordered him, you weren't usually as clear and demanding to Blanc, but after seeing this you couldn't help but be angry.
"I thought I gave orders," He huffed before he put a pair of gloves on. You followed after him and began the search for something, anything that gave you enough evidence to have a lead.
You found nothing. There were pictures of his family, vacations, books, empty medicine bottles, clothes. That was typical for any room, you didn't doubt that they were there well before the murder had occurred. You looked at high shelves when you noticed a camera.
It was old. Clearly a valuable item for display only. You picked it carefully from its place. You coughed as dust entered your throat. Checking if it had film, you were met with nothing. You sighed, placing it back on the shelf.
A case. There was a case hidden behind the camera. It was sleek and untouched for many years, covered in dust. As Blanc searched under the bed. You slowly opened it. "Blanc. Look." He raised his head from under the bed.
"What? What've you got?" He asked, hitting his head as he tried to get from under the bed and yelping. Once he'd composed himself and stood, he dusted himself off and looked at the case. "Joanna's baby book? That's all? Did your parents not do that?" He asked. It was a small book, with a photo of a newborn baby on the front with the name Joanna Haf Lee written on the front in gold lettering.
"Blanc, there's two."
Part 2 <-
#benoit blanc#benoit blanc x reader#benoit blanc x y/n#benoit blanc x you#daniel craig#knives out#knives out glass onion#knives out 2#glass onion#rian johnson#knives out fanfiction#knives out x reader
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Hey I’m a new knives out/glass onion/Benoit blanc enthusiast and I noticed your requests were open. I was thinking about Benoit being very easily flustered around his s/o (always blushing, being at loss of word) and maybe how others around him react to THE Benoit blanc just turning into mush whenever his little human is around 🙃 you can do whatever you want with that, I just thought it was a fun idea
lovestruck detective ✧ benoit blanc
angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)
request: Hey I’m a new knives out/glass onion/Benoit blanc enthusiast and I noticed your requests were open. I was thinking about Benoit being very easily flustered around his s/o (always blushing, being at loss of word) and maybe how others around him react to THE Benoit blanc just turning into mush whenever his little human is around 🙃 you can do whatever you want with that, I just thought it was a fun idea - anon
pairing: benoit blanc x male!reader
word count: 457
warnings?: fluff, not proofread
it was almost comical, how flustered blanc got around you. how the usually calm, collected man would trip over his words. how his face would burn red. how he’d forget what he was doing the moment he laid eyes on you.
in your not-so-humble opinion, that was the true marker of someone being in love. your mother had always told you, don’t trust a man who’s suave and can sweet-talk you into anything. those kind of men don’t care about you. those kind of men only care about what you’ll for them. no, no, she’d say, fall for the man who’ll trip over their own feet when they see you. fall for the man who can’t think straight because you occupy his mind. fall for the man who’d move the heavens and the earth just to see you smile.
when you first met blanc, it was at some stuffy party. a friend of his invited him, apparently in an effort to get the stoic man to lighten up a little. you had gone to network. both of you ended up bored out of your minds at the open bar. you caught his eye as you flagged down a bartender. he spilled his bourbon straight down his shirt. you laughed so hard you snorted. that night, you left with his number and a promise that he wouldn’t make another mess like that again.
except, well, he did. he took you out to dinner, a real nice restaurant with a menu of foods you could hardly fathom the pronunciation of. he offered to order something for you, and you agreed. but when the waiter came, blanc was too busy staring at you to notice. when he finally did order, he stammered his entire way through until he was red in the face. he was so flustered that, when the food arrived, he ended up dropping his entire plate on his lap. you still didn’t understand how he managed to do that.
people hardly understood how a man like benoit blanc could get so tongue-tied and starry-eyed around you. they’d always comment to you that he wasn’t what they expected. that they expected someone like james bond or batman. someone who didn’t let their feelings show very often. and, to be honest, that was usually true. blanc wouldn’t have the career he did if he wore his heart on his sleeve. but you brought out a side of him that he couldn’t hide—that he didn’t want to hide.
so, yeah, blanc became something of a lovestruck full around you. he’d turn completely to mush the second he was with you. but you loved every second. because you’d be lying if you said you weren’t the exact same around him.
#benoit blanc x y/n#benoit blanc x male!reader#benoit blanc imagine#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc x reader#benoit blanc fan fiction#benoit blanc fanfiction#benoit blanc fic#benoit blanc fanfic#starrywrites#starryevermore
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I’m back to my Daniel Craig phase and I’m itching to write a fluff where the reader forces either Benoit Blanc or James Bond to unwind and go on a picnic date under a tree while viewing the sunset then just watch the stars like the hopeless romantic I am.
#james bond x reader#james bond imagines#benoit blanc fanfic#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc imagines#benoit blanc x reader#james bond x you#007 james bond#james bond x y/n#benoit blanc x y/n#reader insert#fanfiction
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𝕄𝕚𝕤𝕔. 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥
✰ - Personal Favorite
✎ - Most inspired for rn
The Fallout (2022)
Vada Cavell ✎
nothing yet
Mia Reed
1. Anxiety [angst, fluff]
Pitch Perfect 1, 2, and 3 (2012, 2015, 2017)
Beca Mitchell
nothing yet
Chloe Beale
nothing yet
Emily Junk
nothing yet
Knives Out (2019) + Glass Onion (2022)
Whiskey
nothing yet
1. Speechless [fluff] ✰
Marta Cabrera
nothing yet
1. Always and Forever [fluff]
Benoit Blanc (Platonic Only)
nothing yet
Free Guy (2021)
Millie Rusk
nothing yet
Walter ‘Keys’ McKey (Platonic Only)
nothing yet
#astrid leong x reader#astrid leong x you#astrid leong x y/n#whiskey x reader#whiskey x you#whiskey x y/n#marta cabrera x reader#marta cabrera x you#marta cabrera x y/n#meg thrombey x reader#meg thrombey x you#meg thrombey x y/n#benoit blanc x reader#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc x y/n#millie rusk x reader#millie rusk x you#millie rusk x y/n#walter mckey x reader#walter mckey x you#walter mckey x y/n#keys mckey x reader#keys mckey x you#keys mckey x y/n
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Christmas Day - Benoit Blanc Imagine (Knives Out)
Title: Christmas Day
Pairing: Benoit Blanc X Platonic!Reader
Word Count: 621 words
Warning(s): not having family/friends
Summary: (Y/n) had started working with Benoit Blanc more and more. When he finds out that (Y/n) doesn't have anyone to visit for the holidays, he decides to reach out and try to make their holiday season a little bit better.
Author's Note: Happy Holidays! I am not one who usually writes Christmas stories, but I thought that this would be cute.
--------------------------
I was never expecting to work with Benoit Blanc.
He was one of the best detectives in the world. He always seemed like a one-man team that may have been forced to work with others in certain situations. I didn't think that he had any interest in recruiting someone to work with him.
But after working one case with him, he started reaching out more and more.
Slowly, I started to feel like an actual partner. Like we both saw each other as equals.
Which probably wasn't close to true. He was pretty much my boss.
He was a nice guy. A little excitable when there was a mystery, but otherwise nice and honest. A good person.
I don't know how Benoit found out that I didn't have anyone to spend the holidays with. I'm sure that if I asked then I would get some long-winded explanation about how some small thing that I did or said.
I only found out that he knew when he asked me to join him on Christmas.
"What?" I replied, thinking that I must've misheard him.
"I want you to join Phillip and me for Christmas," Benoit repeated.
I was silent for a few moments before I finally got myself to shake my head. "No, no. I can't do that. I don't want to intrude-"
"Nonsense," he cut me off. "Phillip and I would be happy to have you."
I took a deep breath.
"I don't want you spending Christmas alone," he continued. "Please?"
I sighed. "Fine."
"Good," he grinned.
Christmas day, I found myself walking up to Benoit's place and knocking on the door.
"There they are," Benoit cheered as he pulled the door open. I chuckled at him.
He pulled me into a hug. I barely avoided hitting him in the back with the bag that I had brought for him and Phillip.
"Merry Christmas," he stepped back. I said the phrase back to him.
Phillip stepped around him and gave me a softer hug. "It's nice to see you, (Y/n)."
"Thank you for inviting me," I said. I held the bag out to him. "I brought a gift."
"Oh, you didn't need to do this."
"It's the least I could do," I waved him off.
"Well, it's good that you mentioned gifts," Benoit walked over to another part of the room, coming back with a wrapped gift. "Open it."
I chuckled before pulling the wrapping paper off.
It was a collection of pens. Nice pens. I traced my thumb over the case.
"You mentioned enjoying having good pens to take notes with," he explained. "There are the best that money can buy."
"You... You didn't have to-"
"Yes, I did."
"I can't accept-"
"You can and you will."
I stammered for a moment before looking down at them again.
After a few moments, I moved to hug Benoit again. He chuckled before hugging me back.
"Thank you," I muttered. "For everything. It's more than I deserve."
"That's not true," he mumbled back to me before stepping out of the hug. "Now, come on, Phillip is quite the entertaining cook."
"Only because Benoit burns everything that he touches," Phillip added.
I laughed before hopping onto the barstool next to the kitchen island.
The night was spent chatting, watching Phillip do most of the cooking, and eating.
They were both so kind to me. It didn't feel like I was a burden or that I was in the way. I felt like a part of the family. It was a new feeling for me, but I really enjoyed it. I could get used to feeling like that.
All I could hope was that I could somehow show them how much that meant to me.
--------------------------
Navigation Guide
What I Write For
Some Original Characters
#knives out imagine#knives out fanfiction#knives out x reader#glass onion x reader#glass onion imagine#glass onion fanfiction#benoit blanc imagine#benoit blanc fanfiction#benoit blanc x reader#imagine#fanfiction#x reader
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MANDELA — eight
wc: 1,724
It's been a day that the presentation came around, and you had no thought in your head about the consequences anymore. You hadn't even seen the circumference of news breaking out, and you checked The Cyptid Dailies a lot.
Even when you know you should be finding some peace before your trip, you didn't find interest in kicking a brick wall with your shoe in hopes that it would be fragile enough to break.
You began collecting the fragments of information you had, and with your close precision, started piecing them together on the huge corkboard you left empty until now.
Photographs and sketches you either found from Google images or drew out of pure memory adorned the board. You'd like to think they were capturing haunting visages and elusive forms, but you knew that artistic vision included more than 10 minutes of drawing scribbles up until it looks kind of like something unordinary.
While drawing your hands away, your lips curved into a smile. The effervescent delight said probably too much stimulus until you blinked and looked over at the small sound of a hissing whisper reverberating into your thoughts, and to the rest of the room.
You watched as mist almost flew dangerously close to your face, thank to the fan blowing in the room.
"Protip: if you're in a sticky situation and you don't have mace?" Venti lifted a can of setting spray high above his head, firm and unwavering. "Use this right here. It's practically mustard gas. I don't know what Shining Idol Barbara was cooking when she made this—she put Chemical X in it!"
Xiao placed the cards in his hands down, previously entertaining a game of 'Go-fish' with Aether. "And you know this because...?"
"You CANNOT inhale this if you want to be sent to the pearly gates." Venti shook it for emphasis. "It is expensive for a reason, it is NOT just setting spray. It is hair spray, bug killer, and floor cleaner. It's a 4-in-one, and she knew what she was doing when she did it too."
"Talk about sugar, spice, and everything nice." Kazuha sighed.
You didn't know if it was the sense of relief knowing that you partially succeeded, but you kind of forgot that you were now being accompanied by...the entirety of Teyvat University's chess club.
You were a little confused at the sudden notions; they all seemed to have their own motives as to why they're there. You weren't complaining at all. “Wait, really? She makes product now?” You blinked, your expression mildly impressed as you took the can from his hands, reading the label. “Huh…thought she was on hiatus.”
“If I was as rich as her, I’d forget I was in the shackles of being a juggling clown for people's entertainment too.” Only silence followed with the rest of Heizou's words, and he looked at the rest of them. "What?"
“You bite your words. Being a juggling clown is hard work.” Aether chimed in with defense, before his shoulders slacked. “Not…saying she is a juggling clown, of course, but even if she was...it would be a very high paying ca—(Y/N) what are you working on?”
“Right. I need to make a list before this actually starts," You rose your voice happily, suddenly bathed in an area of instant intrigue, "Not everything needs to be entirely perfect...but all the information we need is for when we actually tell this thing to fuck off, or I will instantly kill myself."
Venti whistled lowly. "Self destructive too," He smiled. "Just my type...just my type."
"Get help. Now." Xiao murmured in response to him, gritting his teeth. "There's no use making two trips if we're going to be there to investigate. We don't even have a lead on what it is yet."
"Au contraire, mon frère!"
"Don't...call me that." Xiao watched with furrowed eyebrows as you shuffled to your bag to take it out, the sounds of flurrying, crumpling loose pages in your bag as you dug deeper.
"God, they're like a real Benoit Blanc." Venti's practically had heart eyes.
He looked at the rest of the group there, staring keenly at you to add to your discovery and sighed through his nostrils. "This was more fun than going to a chess tournament?"
"I'm sorry, did you want us to say no? I'm tired of being demolished by the Kamisatos. I'm convinced they go to those just to one day see us dissolve into cinder and ashes." Aether asked in this suspended moment, Xiao letting out a small grunt at him.
"That's because you get your tricks off Tiktok." Kazuha chuckled.
"Feast your eyes!" You grasped the newspaper in your hands firmly, lifting it aloft as if hoisting a sacred artifact.
The five of them hovered over it to read, "PROJECT MORI IN DEVELOPMENT COMING 2017! MORI GROVE RD CONNECTING TO FREEWAY ON TEYVAT."
"Mori Grove is less than thirty minutes away from us if we use the path that connects the freeway. But! To bring so much equipment with us would mean that it'll take us longer to setup. And...who knows if the alleged 'clone' will show up? It's either we take longer when they're already gone, or we wait with a bunch of cameras for nothing."
"The only thing that I can think of that actually 'shapeshifts' into what you're talking about is a nematode." Xiao said. "I promise you the world's mysteries don't extend that far."
"Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. That's why you've gotta open your miiiind." You said, scrunching your hands up near your head to make exploding sounds while making the motions (to which Venti playfully followed along).
"Stop that." Xiao interrupted abruptly.
You put your hands down to continue, "And—!" As you were about to go on, your voice trailed off. All eyes turned towards the newcomer who entered the clubroom.
You turned your head towards Kuni, your smile instantly became radiant. "You're here! Come, sit, sit!" You rushed towards one of the free chairs, motioning to it's wooden fashion.
Though it wasn't reciprocated, he looked at your blossoming joy expressed through the curvature of your lips. His dull eyes remained devoid to mask his unease, looking away to the rest of his friends.
"What are these idiots doing here?" He seemed at a general discontent that this club was even a thing, but he was nothing but punctual to a meeting.
"It's so nice to see you too, Zu." Heizou pulled his lips together. "So nice."
"You thought we were joking about going?" Kazuha was so delighted you could possibly see chrysanthemums and blossoms around him. "I haven't had this much fun ever since we went fishing."
"Don't even remind me," The teetering stability of Kuni's voice turned from a smooth neutral to a tension. "I'm still pissed Xiao knocked the biggest fish I caught out of my hands before I could take a picture with it."
"You were trying to slap me in the face with it's tail. Don't be mad at me that your ego got in the way of your picture."
"I don't care if my ego was crushing your larynx the way I want to do to you right now. Ya' neva' go against the family, kid. Neva'." Kuni pointed in the direction of him, a small Italian accent laced in his tone.
"...Why are you talking like that?" Venti snickered.
Kuni shook his head to himself, mentally regretting his actions before looking at you, turning his body. "Don't get too gung-ho about your trip. I think you should reconsider it."
"Ohh, here we go again." You crossed your arms against your chest. "What excuse are you going to come up with now?"
"Not so much of an excuse this time, (Y/N)." Kuni held his phone up to your face. "The pathway to Mori Grove is closed, and the town is considering blocking off access to leave at all."
Your face dropped, eyes scanning the article as your face turned slightly grim. "What."
"Oh no...do you have a backup plan, (Y/N)?" Kazuha asked you, but you didn't know how to even process a response to anybody at the moment.
"...No...I don't have a backup plan." Your eyes glazed with a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment, but though you were previously vibrant and bustling, there may as well have been fire in your eyes. "Because this isn't going to happen. Oh HELL no!"
Kuni couldn't help but scoff. "You're going to go against the national guard? I don't think you're going to get far-"
"There could be a nuclear bomb up my ASS RIGHT NOW, I'M CATCHING THIS SHAPESHIFTER IF IT'S THE LAST THING I DO!" You pointed at your best friend to interrupt him, looking at him with unwavering refusal as you grabbed your bag and your laptop. "Meeting over! Get the cars ready at 6AM."
"H-Hey, isn't that a little bit too early for a hunt..?" Aether called out towards you, but before you made a stormy exit, you quickly turned around towards the blond with a squint.
"Six. A. M." And with that, you disappeared from view, and all the six could hear was the faint and tiny footsteps get tinier.
"...Okay, cool. Another sleep paralysis demon to look forward to," Aether thought mildly.
The vacuum left by your absence served as a reminder, the air was so still Heizou broke the silence first, "How does having a nuclear bomb up your ass even correlate to catching..."
"Keep it moving. Don't listen to anything they say." Kuni shook his head, checking the watch on his arm. "It is getting late."
"You heard them! 6AM!" Venti clapped his hands loudly, "They obviously have something they're planning, and we got through a 2 hour dissertation of them hurling out cryptid safety procedures. Bedtime."
Kuni raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry? Who made you co-leader?"
"I did, and if you were as smart as you think you were, you'd be fighting me right now." Venti stuck his tongue out. "No? Thought not."
And naturally, Kuni did want to argue with him, but he kept his mouth shut. He took a sharp breath in, eyes fixated on him until he looked back at the door to see something he swore was peeking from the corner of it. It was now gone.
There was nothing there, and the idea of him being delusional made him slightly annoyed. "Okay. We're leaving, now. Turn the lights off."
prev | masterlist | next
NOTES || filler. don't ask me how long the forum page took me...anyway i'm excited for next chapter ROOOADDD TRIIIIPPPP
TAGLIST: @wisteriarain @akagism2 @murderisokayforme @aeongiies @d4y-dr3am3r @truck-kuns-gf @3lysiaa @ayoitsmarie33 @crucnhice @natsuscrustyscarf @dreamsofminnie @astreaa-express @goj0h @cicibao @xirthia @kylexzz @dollpoetwriting @dreamingkace @strawbxrrytiger
#✮ emily writes#genshin fanfic#genshin modern au#genshin smau#self insert#smau#social media au#genshin#scara x reader#scaramouche x reader#kunikuzushi#kunikuzushi x reader#scaramouche x you#scaramouche x y/n#genshin social media au#venti#xiao#aether#kazuha#heizou#alhaitham#kaveh
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Interesting Papers for Week 51, 2022
Adolescent thalamic inhibition leads to long-lasting impairments in prefrontal cortex function. Benoit, L. J., Holt, E. S., Posani, L., Fusi, S., Harris, A. Z., Canetta, S., & Kellendonk, C. (2022). Nature Neuroscience, 25(6), 714–725.
Cognitive and affective theory of mind double dissociation after parietal and temporal lobe tumours. Campanella, F., West, T., Corradi-Dell’Acqua, C., & Skrap, M. (2022). Brain, 145(5), 1818–1829.
Common and stimulus-type-specific brain representations of negative affect. Čeko, M., Kragel, P. A., Woo, C.-W., López-Solà, M., & Wager, T. D. (2022). Nature Neuroscience, 25(6), 760–770.
Social-affective features drive human representations of observed actions. Dima, D. C., Tomita, T. M., Honey, C. J., & Isik, L. (2022). eLife, 11, e75027.
The role of population structure in computations through neural dynamics. Dubreuil, A., Valente, A., Beiran, M., Mastrogiuseppe, F., & Ostojic, S. (2022). Nature Neuroscience, 25(6), 783–794.
Proximal CA1 20–40 Hz power dynamics reflect trial-specific information processing supporting nonspatial sequence memory. Gattas, S., Elias, G. A., Janecek, J., Yassa, M. A., & Fortin, N. J. (2022). eLife, 11, e55528.
Diversity of spatiotemporal coding reveals specialized visual processing streams in the mouse cortex. Han, X., Vermaercke, B., & Bonin, V. (2022). Nature Communications, 13, 3249.
Learning binds new inputs into functional synaptic clusters via spinogenesis. Hedrick, N. G., Lu, Z., Bushong, E., Singhi, S., Nguyen, P., Magaña, Y., … Komiyama, T. (2022). Nature Neuroscience, 25(6), 726–737.
Reach adaption to a visuomotor gain with terminal error feedback involves reinforcement learning. Ikegami, T., Flanagan, J. R., & Wolpert, D. M. (2022). PLOS ONE, 17(6), e0269297.
What matters in making demand-based decisions: Time alone or difficulty too? Janczyk, M., Feghhi, I., & Rosenbaum, D. A. (2022). Psychological Research, 86(5), 1355–1365.
A brain atlas of axonal and synaptic delays based on modelling of cortico-cortical evoked potentials. Lemaréchal, J.-D., Jedynak, M., Trebaul, L., Boyer, A., Tadel, F., Bhattacharjee, M., … Nacci, E. (2022). Brain, 145(5), 1653–1667.
Two Types of Auditory Spatial Receptive Fields in Different Parts of the Chicken’s Midbrain. Maldarelli, G., Firzlaff, U., Kettler, L., Ondracek, J. M., & Luksch, H. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(23), 4669–4680.
Efficient coding of cognitive variables underlies dopamine response and choice behavior. Motiwala, A., Soares, S., Atallah, B. V., Paton, J. J., & Machens, C. K. (2022). Nature Neuroscience, 25(6), 738–748.
Integration of visual landmark cues in spatial memory. Newman, P. M., & McNamara, T. P. (2022). Psychological Research, 86(5), 1636–1654.
A general decoding strategy explains the relationship between behavior and correlated variability. Ni, A. M., Huang, C., Doiron, B., & Cohen, M. R. (2022). eLife, 11, e67258.
Aberrant causal inference and presence of a compensatory mechanism in autism spectrum disorder. Noel, J.-P., Shivkumar, S., Dokka, K., Haefner, R. M., & Angelaki, D. E. (2022). eLife, 11, e71866.
A synaptomic analysis reveals dopamine hub synapses in the mouse striatum. Paget-Blanc, V., Pfeffer, M. E., Pronot, M., Lapios, P., Angelo, M.-F., Walle, R., … Herzog, E. (2022). Nature Communications, 13, 3102.
Parametric Cognitive Load Reveals Hidden Costs in the Neural Processing of Perfectly Intelligible Degraded Speech. Ritz, H., Wild, C. J., & Johnsrude, I. S. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(23), 4619–4628.
Conditional and unconditional components of aversively motivated freezing, flight and darting in mice. Trott, J. M., Hoffman, A. N., Zhuravka, I., & Fanselow, M. S. (2022). eLife, 11, e75663.
Context-Dependent Inhibitory Control of Stimulus-Specific Adaptation. Yarden, T. S., Mizrahi, A., & Nelken, I. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(23), 4629–4651.
#science#Neuroscience#computational neuroscience#Brain science#research#cognition#cognitive science#neurons#neural networks#neural computation#neurobiology#psychophysics#scientific publications
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Mendacity
Chapter One
Summary: You are a high school teacher but things turn upside down when your best friend tells you there’s a detective pulling teachers aside to question them.
W/C: 1.8k
Warnings: mention of crime?, not much
A/N: FINALLY!!! My brain has allowed me to think of a Benoit fic! I hope you all like it and Thank you to @imabeautifulbutterfly for the title😊
- - -
“Why the hell is there a P.I. here?”
You whip your head up to look at your friend and colleague. The question took you by surprise as you organized a few papers.
“What do you mean? Since when do we need a private investigator at a high school?”
He shrugs as he leans against one of the desks in your classroom. It’s the lunch break so your friend, Raymond, has made his usual stop in your room. It’s not that you don’t leave your room at lunch, but you just like to relax in the quiet before venturing into the chaos of teens in the hallways.
“I heard, and you didn’t hear this from me, but there was apparently some sort of crime committed.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious,” you mutter as you turn back to the papers.
Raymond pretends that he didn’t hear you and continues, “Unfortunately I haven’t been able to figure out who is suspected and for what.”
You pushed out a light laugh as he slouched in disappointment. Raymond had always been big on gossip. He was always the one finding out which of your colleagues were secretly seeing each other, if any of them had any arguments. He was the one who found out any and all of the dirt going around between your colleagues. Even stuff outside of your personal workplace managed to find you due to him. It helped that his boyfriend, well fiancé now, had a knack for being apart of the drama. That meant that you heard things about people you were sure you’d never meet. Especially since many of those people work at a modelling company.
In response to your reaction, he rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re not one bit interested in what’s going on? This P.I., or detective, as I’ve heard him introduce himself, has been pulling aside a lot of the staff here.”
That makes you pause. “All of them?” you ask, hoping the answer would be no. Because, if this detective is pulling all teachers aside, this must mean something more serious than you thought had happened. A something that you, you might add, are not one ounce educated about.
So, when Raymond slowly nods, crossing his arms across his chest, panic starts to fill you. It wasn’t as if you had done something, but the thought that something this serious happened in a setting such as this concerns you.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Raymond says quickly as he notices your pause, “I’m sure it’s nothing. I do have to say, though, this man is easy on the eyes.”
You chuckle. “You gonna try and flirt your way out of questioning?” you say teasingly, causing a laugh to pour out from your friend.
“Never know,” he started with a sly smirk, “it wouldn’t be hard to charm someone as good looking as him.”
Exaggeratedly gasping, you dramatically bring a hand over your heart as you say, “Oh, but you’re engaged to Sam!”
He rolls his eyes with a light chuckle as he stands. You smile a little, glad to have made the conversation a little lighter.
“Now, let’s get your ass out of this room. Maybe I can show you what I was talking about if we see him.”
-
You didn’t see whoever this detective was when you went on your walk with Raymond. Mind you, you weren’t necessarily surprised. It was lunch time. The kids were all out and, if he hadn’t decided to call it a day, would be most likely having his own lunch.
For you and Raymond, you made your way outside. It was almost like a ritual. Every day he’d come into your room, chat for a bit, then the two of you would do a few laps around the school as you both ate and talked. There was the odd time where you’d actually use the staff room to eat, but it wasn’t often.
Unlike Raymond, you didn’t enjoy a lot of drama. And the staff room at lunch was a hotbed for it. So, the two of you vacated outside to where a few students decided to take residence as well. If there was any drama there, it wouldn’t concern you in any way.
The only sign you had of the detective was the fact that there was a police cruiser parked out front. It made sense. If he were a P.I., a school would need an officer partnered with him. Specifically the liaison. Yet, if he were a proper detective, that could mean it’s his cruiser.
Well, you tried not to think about it much. You were on break at the time and it was much needed for your next class. It was going to be a topic that would raise many questions and make many opinions be heard. Well, if they took to it.
-
If anyone had told you that your most popular class would be genocide studies, you would’ve told them that they were insane. Genocide wasn’t something discussed in detail with high schoolers. Well, more like you thought that they’d never be interested.
Oh, how wrong you were.
So, as you let the students packed into your room talk, you write the topic in the board. As they notice what you are writing, a few groan while others quiet down in interest.
When you turn back, you already see a hand raised.
“Yes, Trevor?”
“What does a dress code have to do with genocides? We’ve been talking about how genocides usually happen due to religious differences and ethnicities, not because of what they wear.”
Genuine interest is laced into the boy’s tone. You know he isn’t the only one confused, but there’s more than one reason why you’re bringing this up.
You nod your head a little, leaning against the board that’s not written on.
“You have a point. Though, that’s not really what this is about. One question I’d like to ask: what did Nazi Germany make the Jewish, opposed politicians, those apart of the LGBTQ community, and so many more do to identify what they were?”
A few of your students lowered their heads as they knew what you meant. They were a smart group, empathetic. Which was a good thing considering the class.
You let the question hang in the air for a moment before continuing. “You see, it’s not necessarily clothing that causes a genocides start to oppression, but a certain dress code gets put in place once that target group is named. The holocaust? The Star of David for anyone Jewish. The LGBTQ? The pink triangle. If they were caught without it? Punishment.”
Pausing for a moment, you see a few nodding their heads. Some are looking at the ground, almost in shame. Others still look slightly confused while others are starting to piece together why this topic is being brought up.
“Now,” you begin again, stepping away from the board to walk through the rows of students, “although it isn’t dealt with in the same way as the holocaust, what happens when you break the dress code in the school?”
A few mutter the answer at the same time some just outright say it. “We get punished.”
Once again, you nod, stopping with your back to the always open door.
“Right. Though it’s not totally a punishment right away for you, but a warning to begin with, but it’s a way to help you somewhat understand.” A few nods. “And, what I would like to bring our attention to comes from a country that many of you wouldn’t think to have a genocide in their past, and least of all that they’re still having a problem with it.” A pause to see if anyone guesses it.
Instead of telling them, you go back to the whiteboard and write it down.
A nearly shocked gasp draws your attention to your students as one asks, “Canada?” with a disbelieving tone.
You nod. “You see, what I want to talk about is how it doesn’t matter how you dress that causes genocides to happen. Yes, maybe your specific religion or beliefs brings certain clothing along with it, but the way someone dresses is usually determined in the symbolization stage. When…”
The sudden sight at your door made you trail off in the middle of your lecture. A few confused students looked over as well, curious to what stopped the flow of information coming from you.
That reason was the principal, along with someone unfamiliar, who were standing just inside the threshold of your room. You didn’t know how long they had been there, and usually you’d continue on but you know what this is going to be about.
Not only that, but the unfamiliar man, dressed in a grey suit and tie that made his blue eyes stand out even across the room. His eyes, the ones that belonged to the man you assumed was who Raymond had been talking about earlier, were what caused you to pause.
Damn you Raymond.
“Hi,” you say as brightly as you can (and without trying to give away that you already know why they’re here), “are you needing me to step out for a moment?”
You ask it to the principal rather than the man at her side. Even still, the man is the one who answers.
“Please,” he said quickly, taking a step forward with a raised hand, “don’t let us interrupt.”
The southern accent takes you back a bit. Though you weren’t expecting it, it certainly suits him. It adds to the charm that the man just simply radiates. You find yourself wishing that you could hear it more, but quickly push it aside.
Before you could get too caught up with studying this man, cursing that Raymond was right, you turned back to your students. A few had mischievous glints to their eyes, some looking simply amused as they turn back to you. Overall, though, every single one of them sent a silent message that they caught onto something. A something you would of preferred to be the fact that you were about to be questioned by some sort of law enforcement and not the fact that you really do find him attractive.
It didn’t help when you saw the man’s own amusement making his eyes almost twinkle. There was something else, but you couldn’t quite place what it was.
A chuckle from a few of your students drew your attention away. Their teasing looks only increased as even more caught on.
Why did you have to teach teenagers?
- - -
@thereluctantherosrose @imabeautifulbutterfly @where-fantasy-meets-reality @binanas @stardancerluv @laazulli
#benoit blanc x reader#detective benoit blanc#benoit blanc/you#benoit blanc/reader#benoit blanc imagine#benoit blanc fic#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc x y/n#daniel craig
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i really need to get back into writing. like i have the drive to write something, but i need ideas and stuff like that. so please please please PLEASE send me some prompts and whatnot i will write a list of the characters that I can write for down below.
if i feel that i cannot do your request justice or i just don’t fee comfortable writing it i will just ignore it. but i will just say straight out i am fine with writing smut. but my limits are anything that has to do with rape, beastiality, incest, pedophila, you get the gist. please keep it legal.
————
characters i write for
star wars:
-kylo ren/ben solo
-han solo
-poe dameron
- finn
-leia organa
-luke skywalker
-rey (i refuse to call her rey skywalker)
ships i will do for star wars
-reylo
-hanleia
-stormpilot
-any of these characters x reader
james bond:
-james bond (daniel craig version)
-vesper lynd
ships i will do for the james bond series:
-james x reader
-james x vesper
knives out:
-benoit blanc
-marta cabrera
ships i will do for knives out:
-cablanca
-benoit x reader
- marta x reader
stranger things:
-jonathan byers
-jim hopper
-billy hargrove
-steve harrington
ships i will do for stranger things:
-hopper x reader
-jopper
-jonathan x reader
-jancy
-steve x reader
-billy x reader
#stranger things#jopper#hopper x reader#reylo#knives out#benoit blanc#star wars#kylo x rey#kylo x y/n#kylo ren#writing#fanfic#fanfiction#jim hopper
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love the prompt list! what about 38 with benny blanc? 😇
A/N: Yes, of course! Thank you so much for requesting! I was going to do another Glass Onion inspired one but decided to not do another one like that for this one. I accidentally went too far & now it's all sad with a happy ending.
Prompt: 38. Craving their company after a stressful day
Contains: Angst, Benoit cries (AHHHHH), mention of a gun, near-death experience, short one shot
Pairing(s): Benoit Blanc x GN!Reader
Benoit got in his car & let out a huff. It wasn't really of anger, more like... letting go of a breath he didn't know he was holding. He almost died today. An officer was chasing the suspect in his direction. The yelling of the officer made him turn around, he was just looking at some bootprints with another officer. He was too late, the man hurdled into Benoit & caught him off guard. The man pulled Benoit in front of him & held a gun to his head. He froze as the man yelled at the surrounding officers & the next ten seconds felt like years as his mind raced to you. He thought he'd never see you again. A gunshot launched him out of his frozen state, he put his hand to his head where the gun had rested. He was fine. Benoit looked up to see an officer with his gun pointed out towards him, smoke emitting from it. He quickly turned to see the man behind him dead on the floor. Now he's here, alone in his car. A knock caught his attention, making him jump & turn to the side.
"I didn't mean to scare you, Blanc. Just wanted to check if you want a ride, you seem really shaken."
He did just have a gun pointed at him, not like the officer meant it so harshly. Benoit placed his hand on the wheel & forced a tight-lipped smile.
"I'm fine, officer. Thank you."
"Alright Blanc, I'm sorry all that happened. If you need any resources for therapy I'm sure our receptionist can set you up."
Benoit was bouncing his leg, desperate to get home, "I'll look into that, thank you, officer."
With that, the officer let him go & Benoit pulled out & onto the road. Despite being eager to get home he was very careful while driving. He had to make it home to you in one piece. He found himself checking the rearview mirror to make sure no one was behind him. Soon enough, you heard the sound of keys at the door before Benoit walked in.
"Hey, baby! I'm watching (favorite tv show) right now, come join me!" You spoke excitedly from your spot on the couch.
Benoit walked over to you & picked you up like it was nothing. You protested, claiming you didn't want to miss your show but he was quiet & didn't let go. He brought you to your shared room & laid you down on the bed before climbing in & laying on top of you, his head buried in your chest. He hugged your waist tightly & took a deep breath.
"Benoit, baby, what's wrong?"
That broke him, he started bawling his eyes out & his grip grew tighter. He told you everything that happened & you returned the tight hug, in pure disbelief of the words he told you. Benoit sits up, straddling your hips & crying like a baby, you sit up with him.
"& I-I- thought I'd never see you again. You were all I thought about & I just wanted you to hug me & say it would all be alright."
To say you'd never seen Benoit like this was an understatement. He was the one that helped others, wiped their tears & solved their problems. You were glad that he felt like he could be not okay around you & talk about his feelings. You brush your thumbs across his cheeks to wipe his face. His eyes were growing red & they snapped to look at you.
"I love you, Benoit. I'm so sorry that this all happened, I'm here to help however I can. Even if that is just cuddles & listening, I will do anything for you."
"Thank you, Y/N. You are my world."
The two of you cuddled & talked for hours. He felt safe in your arms & you in his. You turned on soft music & put on a bath for him (His favorite /j) & offered to leave him be to relax.
"No, Y/N- Please stay."
So you did. You didn't want to get in the bath so you pulled up a chair next to him & read a book aloud. He admitted that your voice was incredibly soothing in this moment. Benoit asked for a back massage after a while & you happily obliged, feeling a little bad when you felt how tense his back was. After the bath, you two finally headed to bed.
#benoit blanc x y/n#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc#benoit#benoit blanc x reader#silly little gay detective#glass onion#knives out#netflix#gay#lgbt#lgbtq#detective#male reader#angst#one shot
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sweet memories ✧ benoit blanc
angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)
request: Either 3 separate ideas or all together into one: (for Knives out/Glass onion. Any character but probs best for detective Blanc)
● Getting drunk/tipsy and reminiscing their time in their training
● Blanc (?) and reader on a case and one of them gets severely hurt and it’s a choice of whether they continue to chase suspect or help the other
● one of them trying to re-enact what theoretically could have happened on a case, person b paying no attention to this, and suddenly person A is in front of them trying different death methods. Someone walking in and being horrified. Person B saying sorry, person A saying it’s normal. - anon
pairing: benoit blanc x male!reader
summary: you and benoit reminisce on your relationship.
word count: 1,613
warnings?: minor spoilers for glass onion, maybe slightly out of character benoit, established relationship, fluff, gunshot wound, mention of murder, not proofread
Benoit Blanc had not changed much since you had last seen him, you mused. Still had his beautiful, piercing blue eyes. Still had a brain that run a million miles a minute. Still managed to impress you with every single thing he does. It was almost unfair, how perfect the man sitting across from you was. At least he had one fault that you knew of. At least you could still pull out the fact that you’ve beat him at every single game of Clue you played against him. He always hated when you did that, arguing that he wasn’t good at dumb games so it wasn’t fair to keep holding that over his head. But with that sparkling twinkle in his eyes, you knew he didn’t really mean it. Benoit was a teasing man—around you, at least. To the rest of the world, he was the world’s greatest detective. But to you, he was ole Benny, an awkward fella who was a far shout from the greatest at anything.
“Ain’t seen you in a while,” he said, looking at you over the rim of his glass as he took a long sip of his drink. He set the glass down, smacking his lips. “You solve any good mysteries lately?”
“Nothing as great as you,” you said. “I mean, showing the world that Miles Brown is a complete nitwit? You’re really taking that whole eat-the-rich thing to heart.”
Benoit waved you off, shaking his head. “It was dumber than a game of Clue. Man didn’t even have the ability to come up with an original murder. Stole all his ideas from everyone.”
“Well, look on the bright side. At least you finally won a game of Clue,” you teased, leaning forward, resting your elbows on the table. “Never thought I’d see the day. Someone should put that in the history books, you know. Benoit Blanc: World’s Greatest Detective, Bested by Clue Except for that One Time.”
“That’s a terrible title for a book. Nobody’d pick it up.”
“I would.”
“Probably ‘cause you’d be the one writin’ it.”
You hummed, taking a sip of your drink. “Someone’s gotta expose you as the dork you truly are. Everyone acts like you’re some James Bond type o’ figure. They deserve to know you’re more of…I don’t know. Who’s the silliest character you can think of?”
Benoit hummed. “Clark Kent?”
“I said silliest character, not the character you’ve got the hots for!” you laughed.
“Oh, come on! The whole glasses disguise? Seriously? No one ever thought, hey this guy looks kinda sorta similar to Superman? I refuse to believe that!”
“Not everyone is as brilliant as you, Benny boy,” you said. You took another sip of your drink. “God, I hate Superman. Remember that one time, when we were working a case together? The jewelry heist case?”
Benoit’s face turned red. He probably didn’t like thinking of that case very much. You couldn’t blame him, if you were being honest. You didn’t like to think of it, either. “You know I could never forget that case.”
“All I really remember of it is bein’ in the hospital. They had stupid Superman movie playing all the time. Man of Steel, or somethin’? I used to like it before, but god, a guy can only watch that shit so many times before it gets annoyin’. I swear, if I see Henry Cavill put on that super suit again, it’d be too soon.”
“I’d prefer to remember it as the day I realized I love you,” Benoit said.
You let out a laugh. “What, it took me being on my death bed to realize you loved me?”
It had been a complete and utter disaster. It wasn’t often that you and Benoit worked together on a case. But this was a tough nut to crack, so Benoit invited you along, telling the client that if she wanted the case to be solved, it was imperative you be there, too. The client hadn’t really been willing, but recognized she had no real choice in the matter so she bit her tongue. After all, she wanted to make sure she was not the victim in the jewelry heist.
Things had gone well enough, if you were being honest. After a few false starts and some misleading clues, you and Benoit were close to triumphant. But neither of you could have expected the suspect to have a gun, much less use it.
He’d been aiming at Benoit. You panicked, your blood running cold. Before you could even think about what you were doing, you jumped and positioned yourself between Benoit and the bullet. It struck you, lodging itself in your side. You screamed as you fell, hitting the floor, hard.
Pain practically blinded you as you reached up, touching your wound. When you pulled your hand away, it was sticky with blood. You lifted your head, seeing Benoit falling to his knees, his hand covering your wound, applying pressure. You twisted your head the best you could, watching as the suspect ran.
“Go,” you whispered. You couldn’t manage to make your voice any louder. Took too much energy. “You’re gonna lose him. We won’t get another chance like this.”
“I can’t lose you,” Benoit said.
“I’ll be fine, go get him.”
“Don’t make me leave you,” Benoit whispered, leaning over you, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “I love you. I can’t lose you. I love you.”
“It was an emotional moment!” Benoit argued. “It ain’t strange for things to be revealed in times of high stress, you know.”
“I know,” you said. You reached over, grabbing his hand, giving it a squeeze. “I just hate that it took you so long. To think we might have gotten together a lot sooner if I told you I loved you when I realized.”
Benoit let out a laugh so loud it practically shook the walls of the kitchen. “Oh, come on. At least when I realized, it had a sort of morbid romantic edge. Yours was just me being an idiot!”
“Well, I love when you’re an idiot.”
It was the early days in your friendship. You and Benoit had often worked together back then, honing your detective skills, bouncing ideas off each other. It felt less like a job that way. It felt more like playing a game of Clue (despite Benny’s aversion to the game). In any case, it was more fun that way. Plus, it gave you and Benoit a chance to develop some more unconventional methods of solving cases. Which is exactly what you were doing.
You and Benoit were working out how the victim may have died. You had narrowed down to a few different murder weapons that might have been it, but you and Benoit couldn’t quite figure out how it had happened. So, it was only natural that the two of you ran through some different scenarios in an effort to narrow some the possibilities.
That was how you ended up straddling Benoit, who laid on his back on the floor, his hands above his head as if he were surrendering. Your breath caught in your throat at the position. You liked it—you like it a lot. But you forced yourself to ignore the thought about what it may be like if you were in this same position with a little less clothes. You had to remain professional. You had to.
You raised your hand holding the prop knife, acting like you were going to drive it through Benoit’s chest. As you brought it down, the fake blade pushing itself into the handle, you frowned. This didn’t make sense. The victim had been fighting back, and this position didn’t give much opportunity to do it. “No, I don’t think it was like this. Here, trade places with me.”
You lifted yourself off of Benoit and laid on the floor. Benoit straddled you now. Your breath hitched as he reached down, his hands closing around your throat.
“The victim had injuries on her hands, like someone’d been tryin’ to pry her hands off of ‘em,” Benoit said.
“When the killer couldn’t do that, they kneed her in the stomach,” you continued, bring your leg up, pressing your knee into Benoit’s stomach.
“And then—”
The door opened. There was a shout. Benoit lifted his head, his face tinted red as he looked at the person who walked inside.
“Oh, god!” the person said. It was your client. Fuck. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean t-to see anything!”
“Oh, it’s not like that!” Benoit said. “We’re just tryin’ to act out the murder!”
You cleared your throat, trying to twist your head to look at her. “Totally normal. All the professionals do it.”
“I-I’ll leave you it then…”
She left as quick as she came, shutting the door behind you. As you and Benoit looked at each other again, you felt like your face was burning.
“Um, so that seems like it was the way it happened…” you mumbled.
“Right, right,” Benoit said, getting off of you. “Uh, with that done, we should start narrowing down the suspects, then.”
You nodded. “Yeah. Just give me a moment and I’ll be ready.”
Because, holy fuck, how could you be in a position like this and just expect to continue on as normal?
“If you love your idiot so much then, how ‘bout you join me in the bath, then?” Benoit asked. “Gets a bit lonely in there, you know.”
Your snorted. “Fine. But we’re not staying there for a week, alright?”
“I’m sure I could convince you otherwise.”
“We’ll see.”
Oh, how you loved your silly little detective.
#benoit blanc imagine#benoit blanc x reader#benoit blanc x male!reader#benoit blanc x you#benoit blanc x y/n#benoit blanc fic#benoit blanc fanfiction#benoit blanc fan fiction#benoit blanc fanfic#benoit blanc fan fic#starrywrites#starryevermore
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Murder, He Wrote
Part 1
Co-written with @southerngracela
Summary: You’re sent by your asshole boss to do a review of a Celebrity Host Haunted Mansion, hosted by none-other than the arrogant, wild-eye browed actor Lucas Lee, but you’re worried you’ve missed the boat…that is, until at the last minute, an email arrives to say they can let you in on the last admission that night, which just happens to be Halloween…
When you arrive, you’re actually kind of excited and intrigued…but it isn’t long until that excitement and intrigue give way to fear when you find yourself in a helpless situation.
Warnings: A creepy house, bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!
Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader
A/N: So this is a collaboration between myself and the wonderful @southerngracela for @jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020 challenge…and will be a mini-series, with an as of yet undefined number of chapters.
Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.
Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.
Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.
"Y/L/N," your dick editor poked his head into your office rather gruffly. "I'm gonna need that celebrity haunted mansion review on my desk by tomorrow morning. I want to run it ASAP.”
"I can't even get in, not even with a press pass, I've been trying for two weeks, Mick!” you looked at him, your mouth slightly open. You’d told him this countless times at morning briefings. You hadn't even heard back from the organizers about sneaking around the press pass issue and offering an exclusive on the joint, a small fact you kept Mick in the dark about.
"Make it happen." He said simply, before he turned and left.
You glared at his retreating form. What the fuck did he not understand about the situation? Mind you, what did he understand about anything? There was a reason everyone working for him called him Mick The Prick.
There was also a reason he was being extra prickish to you. Earlier in the spring time of the year you’d run an article on Ransom Drysdale- the stuck up, trust fund asshole who had literally gotten away with murder. He’d confessed to murdering his grandfather’s house keeper, attempting to murder his grandfather and then, in a violent showdown with 2 police officers and a private detective present, he’d attempted to murder his grandfather’s nurse, Marta. And he would have succeeded, except the knife he’d used had been a stage prop. It was like some fucked up Murder, She Wrote plot, and when you’d interviewed the real life Jessica Fletcher (in this case the rather charming PI named Benoit Blanc who’d been a character to say the least) it got even more confusing. Ransom had hired Blanc in some elaborate scheme to frame Marta for Harlan’s death to do her out of the inheritance via the Slayer Rule. That had back fired spectacularly when she had unwittingly switched back the vials of medication Drysdale had tampered with, meaning Harlan had truly committed suicide.
The article was supposed to be done showing his side of the story, a way for him to set the record straight, but the more you’d dug and spoken to people surrounding the case, the more you were absolutely convinced of his guilt, not least because he’d been acquitted on the murder and attempted murder charges on technical grounds due to his confession being, allegedly, obtained under duress and without a brief being present. The only thing they’d managed to pin on him was the arson which had burnt the Chief Medical Examiner’s office to the ground, and when his brief had successfully argued mitigating circumstances- he wasn’t of sound mind given the shock surrounding him being cut from his grandfather’s will- he’d basically ended up being released on license.
It was a joke, and that was basically what your article had said. You’d written a scathing attack on how money could basically render you untouchable by the law, highlighting the failures of the Criminal Justice System. At the time, Mick the Prick had been delighted with it, publishing it under your suggested head line “Murder, He Wrote”- ha, go figure, and copies had flown off the shelves, the article online going viral.
And then money had talked once more, and the Drysdale’s had threatened to sue for defamation. That in itself was a joke, as you knew full well his mother, Linda, was only doing it to salvage her own reputation, the same reason she’d worked so hard to find a lawyer to get him off the charges despite the fact she knew full well he was guilty as sin. Mick The Prick had attempted to throw you under the bus spectacularly when the board had come looking for blood, but as editor the buck stopped with him, and he was given a formal warning whilst you were forced to publish a retraction and offer a written apology much to your utter chagrin.
Which was why he was now making your life as hard as possible, and your Investigative Journalism skills, that you’d honed over the last decade; from high school paper, college tribune and now your current employer, over the last 10 years or so since graduation were now being focussed on covering stories about housewives who found Jesus’ face in a slice of toast, or in this case a fucking Celebrity Host Halloween Haunted House review. Whereas you had dominated the first 2 pages once upon a time, you were now lucky if you made it further up than page 11.
With a groan you banged your head on your desk. Why had you not listened to your dad and become a damned teacher instead of a journalist. Dealing with snotty nosed brats would be easier than this.
By the end of your day, you were burning what felt like the midnight oil however it wasn't very late at all. Dark had settled in but it wasn't late by time. Just before you were to log off and leave for the night, a TV dinner and pint of mint chip waiting for you in your freezer (and probably a job search too seeing as you would no doubt be fired tomorrow morning for failing on your deadline) your email pinged on your desktop. You frowned at it, wondering who could possibly be emailing you this late but then you recognized the sender.
It was the reply you'd been waiting on from the organizers from the Celebrity Host Haunted House. Clicking the email open, your eyes scanned the message. The organizer was setting you up with a private tour, TONIGHT. "9 pm," you finished reading aloud, relief flooding your entire body. It meant a long assed, sleepless night whilst you wrote your article, but it was better than the looming threat of unemployment. Plus, on the upside, as it was a charity gig the organizer had pulled out the big guns and the blurb on the email told you that it was to feature none other than Lucas Lee, a once-upon-a-time famous A-List Movie star, who was possibly just as arrogant as Hugh Ransom Drysdale, but you had to give it to him, in the films you’d seen he was actually damned good, and also pretty hot so…every cloud.
Glancing at your clock, you had just enough time to clock out and grab a quick bite at a drive thru on your way. The location was nearly an hour outside the city so you needed to get gone and fast. A quick reply telling the organizer you were on your way was sent out and you grabbed your coat, pulling it on over your sweater dress and were gone.
It took a good hour like you'd estimated and that was with stopping for a quick meal, to reach the address your GPS brought you to. It was creepy even at its first glance so you could only hope this payed off. With a quick swig of your watered down and flat fountain drink, you grabbed your bag and phone, exiting your vehicle and locking it shut. The cool night air bit at your exposed cheeks and you were glad you'd worn your coat and tights.
As you stood, gazing at the dilapidated house you shivered, as though, ice had replaced you spine. The walkway leading up to house was cracked, blood red roses grew wildly in thick batches by the gate and the moonlight cast a ghoulish glow on the house. Vines formed a twisted maze upon the side of the of the house's walls which showed the black decay of neglect, in between which splotches of original paint hinted at the house’s former prosperity. Cobwebs covered the corners of the doors, tiny black spiders threading towards their prey and you gave another shudder, as far as first impressions went, yeah, it was fitting for a Halloween Haunted House tour.
Pulling out your phone, noticing you had no reception (of course you wouldn’t, wasn’t that the cliché?) you took a few photos to use in the article and then gave a little squeak as the door creaked open on its own. Arching your eyebrow slightly, in a manner very much like the man you were here to meet, you strode forward and into the house. Immediately a musty, dank odour crept into your nose. The house was deadly silent except for the intermittent creaks and moans typically associated with a property that age. Black and brown mold dotted the ceiling of the tall hallway you stood in and the windows that framed the door on either side were covered with grime and dirt meaning the calm moonlight struggled to penetrate the darkness in thin thread rays, the main source of light being the open doorway. Sharp shadows roamed around the room and as your eyes adjusted to the dim light you noticed that there was a bright white envelope almost perched on the wooden table to the side of the hall. It was the newest thing in the room, so was obviously there for you.
You crossed over, the heels of your suede boots clicking loudly out in the silence of the hallway, and gently reached out for the envelope. A single word- Start- was written on the front in cursive, looping scrawl, very fitting for a spooky note. Another detail you committed to memory for your write up.
You slid your finger into the crook of the envelope and slid it open. Inside was a small, white card, containing a message written in the same writing.
To ensure that you don’t become tomorrow’s big news,
In this envelope you’ll find the first of 6 clues
Of your super sleuth skills you should be proud,
So make sure that you read your answers out loud.
As one by one they lead to your ultimate demise.
Which may or may not be a scary surprise…
Okay, now you were interested. This wasn’t just a walk through some scary assed, supposedly haunted house where Lucas Lee was no doubt set to jump out at you in some ridiculous disguise. This was a scavenger hunt, and your natural inquisitiveness was piqued. 'This could be fun', you thought as you reached for the next card that was in the envelope, reading the first clue.
I’m tall when I’m young,
and I’m short when I’m old.
I also give heat but,
not enough to prevent cold
You pondered for a second, heat was leading you to think of a fire, and they certainly grew shorter with time, well eventually when they burnt out…but then again, the longer they went the hotter they got, and they certainly prevented the cold. Scanning the hallway for anything that might fit the description, your eyes flicked up to the ceiling which held an elaborate, but tarnished candelabra style chandelier. And then it hit you. Tall when young, short when old.
“Candle…” you spoke “The answer is Candle…”
At that the door leading to the outside slammed shut behind you, and you gave an involuntary scream as the dominant source of light was sealed off. You spun round to look at it, and then your scream turned in to a laugh as you shook your head, for an Investigative Reporter you prided yourselves on steely nerves but so far that was twice this adventure had caught you off guard.
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
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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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Faster Than a Kitten on Parade (Benoit Blanc x Reader)
Okay, not to toot my own horn, but this is actually kind of good? Like I’m kinda proud of myself... I spent a large amount of time trying to figure out southern accents and their corresponding regions that I kinda gave up and said Mississippi. Louisiana is another safe bet? Anyway, to all Bostonians reading this, I’m sorry. I wrote what I wrote for the sake of plot.
I did not reference race, gender, sexuality, or physical appearance. If I missed something, please let me know so I can change it!
Warnings: brief description of near car accident and reckless driving
***This is pure fluff with not even a hint of angst***
Every day you take the bus to and from work. While it’s thankfully a straight shot from where you live, Boston’s public transportation leaves much to be desired. The buses rarely run on time, the traffic is miserable, and in the winter it’s living hell. Snowy, cold, wet... It makes you wonder what made you think of moving away from your hometown to this. Was the career move really worth it? Yes.
But that doesn’t mean that your commute lacks any perks. The bus stop you wait at in the morning is right outside a coffee shop, people keep to themselves (unless there’s a game coming up), and it provides you with the time you need to reflect on the day. Most of all, however, is the new guy.
One of the things that comes with riding the same bus everyday is that you tend to ride with the same people as well. So of course your curiosity is piqued when you first saw him. Everything about him seemed so different from the usual folk you see walking around Boston: kind, gentlemanly, smart...
That being said, you have yet to actually meet him...
Normally, that would be completely fine, but you have to admit something’s going on when a fellow commuter has continued to make your day more than several days in a row. Was it his smile? The way he holds himself? That time he gave up his seat for an older lady? Is it just because he’s so clearly not from Boston?
You’ve been trying to build up enough confidence to actually say something - literally anything - but you always chicken out. The first time it was because he was reading a book and you didn’t want to disturb him. The second was because he was standing barely a foot away from your seat and you blanked because that ass. The third and fourth (and admittedly fifth) time ended in a similar fashion.
That is until one glorious and blessed day.
It was snowing hard, but as usual, the city chugged along without a care. So, you had left your apartment with several layers of sweaters and more handwarmers than you could count (That’s a lie. You were carrying ten.). The bus was unusually full and by the time his stop came around, there weren’t a lot of seats left.
Did you forget to breath when you watched him look at the seat next to you?
Were your hands getting sweaty even though that shouldn’t be possible considering the temperature?
Was your heart running faster than a kitten on parade?
Yes, yes, and yes.
“May I take this seat?” His accent somehow prevented you from speaking so you just nodded and smiled. “Thank you kindly.” You shift slightly to give him some space and to try and get rid of sudden spike in adrenaline that his unexpected (and totally welcomed) accent caused...
You watch him out of the corner of your eye, trying really hard to not look weird or creepy. He has on this grey pea coat and a deep maroon colored scarf. His blue suit pants stretch just a tad over what looked to be some muscle. And his aftershave...is amazing to say the least. But all these fine details aren’t what really catch your eye. For what ever reason, this man has no gloves on. His finger tips are turning purple! Hurriedly, you look in your work bag for one of your spare handwarmers. You find it at the bottom, still in it’s packaging.
“I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t have gloves...” You hand it to him. He looks at you with surprise.
“Oh, no...! I couldn’t possibly...” His voice sounds like honey...
“I insist. I buy so many, I won’t miss one.” You push it into his hands.
“That’s mighty kind of you.” He smiles again. It’s very soft. Like marshmallow clouds kind of soft.
“Oh, not at all!” And in that moment, you did something very daring: you introduced yourself. “Um, I’m (Y/N) (L/N), by the way.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mx. (L/N). I’m Benoit Blanc, but please, call me Blanc.” He offers to shake your hand and you take it. You can feel how cold his hands are through your gloves, but it barely even registers. You’re far too busy trying to memorize his name.
Benoit Blanc.
“Is that French?” Oh. My. God. Really?
“Yes.” He chuckled a little. One side of his mouth went up, scrunching that side of his face. It was a hella cute scrunching. “On my father’s side. Immigrated several generations back.”
“I was gonna say that you don’t really look French...”
“I take after my mother.”
“Ah. That explains it.” You smile, genuinely amused. “Sothen, where are you really from then?”
“A small town in Mississippi. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Yeah, probably not.” You nod slightly. “I bet that it’s super different than here.”
“Heh, yeah it is.” Mr. Blanc holds the handwarmer up for a second as emphasis.
“I, uh, I’m from (hometown) - (region) - so I know where you’re coming from. Boston sure is something else, isn’t it?”
“Never have I ever - and I mean ever - been in a town as - as - as unique unto itself as Boston!” A few people look up. You don’t care. You had no idea that a man of his age could look so cute. “Apologies.” He lowers the volume of his voice - not that he really needed to. “Now, comin’ from the South, I’ve had my fair share of human nature, but the drivers here are a whole ‘nother species. It’s like the jungle out there.”
“Did you ever make the mistake of taking a taxi when you first came here?”
“Much to my chagrin, yes, yes I have.” He shakes his head disapprovingly, but you can see a little twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “Not too long ago, in fact. The man was speakin’ on the phone and nearly drove us off a bridge... Nearly had a conniption of the heart.”
“That is pretty bad. In my first ride I was this close-” You bring up your thumb and pointer finger, the pads barely a millimeter apart. “-to getting run over by a cement truck because the driver ran a red light. He got mad at me too ‘cause I didn’t tip him.”
“Good lord, that is quite the experience...” His brow furrowed slightly.
“I saw my life go past my eyes.” You say dramatically. “But hey, that’s Boston.” You sigh heavily. “Anyway, how long have you lived in the city?”
“Jus’ a couple of months.” Aha. Just around the time he first started taking the bus... “Yourself?”
“A couple of years. I feel more and more like a true Bostonian every day that passes.” You chuckle. “The plus side though, is that I can show you where all the good food is. I can be your personal tour guide!” It takes a couple of milliseconds for your brain to register what you had just said. “Well, if you’d like that... The offer, uh, stands?” What are you talking about?
“I think I jus’ might take you up on that, if you wouldn’t mind.” This man. Bless this beautiful man. God, that smile. “That bein’ said, I do believe this is my stop.”
“Already? Time flies when you’re having fun.” You smile.
“Yes it does. It was a pleasure meetin’ you, Mx. (L/N),” He stands up. “And thank you very much for your kindness.” He waves the handwarmer a little.
“You can call me (Y/N) and you are very welcome.”
“Then call me Benoit, if you please. Now you have yourself a good day.” He smiles, waves a little, and hurries off the bus. And just like that, your whole year has just been made.
Did you pass your stop a while ago?
Were you smiling like an absolute idiot anyway?
Was your heart running faster than a kitten on parade?
Yes, yes, and yes.
I hope you all like this! I had so much fun writing it and it just flowed out of me. Side note, the title is inspired by Trixie Mattel’s song, Gold. She’s a country singer, but it’s actually good, so check it out! If you have any constructive criticism or requests, please let me know! I am also a big fan of comments - they make my week every time! See you all in the next one!
- Simpy
#benoit blanc x reader#benoit blanc#x reader#benoitblanc#daniel craig#knives out#knives out character#movie characters#movies#boston#fluff#so much fluff#im proud of this#for once#lol#imagines#fanfic#fanfiction#romance#southern accent#bus au#reader is smitten#so in love#also gender neutral#trixie mattel#gold#what a song
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