#if you guessed on the hard floors that are easy to clean you'd be dead fucking wrong

[zooophagous]

I don't understand dog people who hate cats because they think cats will piss and shit all over the house and make it smell bad because honestly having lived with both animals dogs are 1000000% more likely to piss and shit everywhere and make your house reek of excrement constantly

[elibabayblog]

Break-in

'Tonight the music seems so loud I wish that we could lose this crowd Maybe, it's better this way We'd hurt each other with the things we'd want to say

We could been so good together We could have lived this dance forever But now, who's gonna dance with me? Please stay

And I'm never gonna dance again Guilty feet have got no rhythm Though it's easy to pretend  I know your not a fool

I should've known better  than to cheat a friend And the wasted chance I've been given So I'm never gonna dance again The way I danced with you, oh

Now that you're gone (Now that you're gone) was what I did so wrong, so wrong That you had to leave me all alone?'

You sang out loud. Your Alexa was shuffling your spotify playlist. You heard the front door, but didn't think much of it. You thought it was your husband.

"I'm in the kitchen handsome!" You called out over the music.

You heard footsteps but he never cam into the kitchen.

'Oh, well maybe he had a long day filming.'

After you finish up dinner, you head upstairs to wash up.

"I can't wait for tonight, I'm so excitedd!"

Today just so happens to be yours and Ryan's 2nd wedding anniversary and you were excited to see him later. He couldn't spend the whole day with you so you would settle for the night with him.

You felt arms wrap around you, and you smiled.

"Hi handsome, I was wondering when you'd some see me."

No reply was said. You were then thrown on the bed.

"Oh excited?" You look up and realize this whole time this wasn't your husband. 

"Get off of me! Who are you and how did you get in here?" You yell.

You were trying to stall or get someone's attention. Whatever you could to delay him. As for the question asked earlier he never responded. He just stared at you breathing hard. He moved closer to you.

You heard the front door again.

"Princess, I'm home!"

"UPSTAIRS! HURRY UP!"

The man jumped at you and forced you on the bed. Ryan ran in the room looking for you.

"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

"Ryan please!" You cried out.

When he heard you cry out, he jumped over the bed and slung the man off of you. After you were free, you quickly rolled off the bed.

"GO!" He yelled.

You didn't want to leave him to fend off the man, so you reached for the drawer. You pulled out his firearm.

"Move away from him!" You yelled. 

The man started to get the best of Ryan, so the second you had a clean shot, you took it. The sound of the shot echoed in your ear. Ryan hurried over to you, grabbing the gun from you.

"Are you okay?"

You looked up at him and started to cry. You held him as your bodyguard, Marcus ran in the room, gun in hand.

"Are you okay sir, madam?"

"I'm fine, she's still in shock."

"Who fired?"

"She did, but it was to protect me."

"Where is the body?"

"Over there on the floor. He isn't dead, she shot him in his side."

Marcus walked over to the other side of the bed and found  the man laying unconscious on the floor.

"Come on, lets leave here."

Shortly after your statements had been taken and the guy had been arrested. Marcus slept on the chair next to the sofa. He was angry at himself for not being there when you needed him. But now you were okay. Well as okay as you could be.

"Thank you for earlier."

"Anything for my princess."

"I've never seen you fight like that before."

"I've never seen you in harms way before, I guess after you cried out for me, I couldn't take it and I just wanted to kill him. I wanted him to be as hurt and scared as you were."

"Well the training for your new movie has paid off."

"You think?"

"Definitely."

He smiles and wraps his arm around you. He pulls you closer to him, then kisses your forehead. 

"I'll be here to protect you whenever you call for me."

[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 4 Co-Written with @southerngracela​

Summary: Ransom shows you a softer side, but when the table flips he leaves you with no doubt that he’s still just as dangerous as he has always been…

Warnings: 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 Part 4 to our submission for @jtargaryen18​ ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. My writing partner @southerngracela​ is currently on an indefinite hiatus from Tumblr, and I’ve sadly no idea when she will be back. However, this chapter was pretty much finished before she took her break and the rest of the series is also planned out to finish, so as per her blessing before she took time out, I’m intending on finishing what we started.

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.

Part 3

True to his word, Ransom had let you spend the day with him after Blanc's visit. It was a day interestingly enough your mind wandered back to, if not for the change in scenery, but for the change in his demeanour. A couple of weeks had since passed from then, but the memory was burned in your brain. And since, you'd spent far more than just a day above the confines of your room. Almost every morning since he’d ‘allowed’ you to make breakfast and most mornings, unless he was heading out to wherever he went, he then let you stay upstairs with him whilst he plugged away at the book he was writing. That in and of itself had come as a shock to you, to learn he was an aspiring author for sure, but you had simply nodded and encouraged him when he had told you. And you had quickly realised that when he was busy writing, you could get busy reading one of the many books or writing in your journal while sat in the large study and he left you pretty much alone.

Which is where you were currently sat now, curled up on the leather sofa as he sat at his desk, tapping away at his laptop, your journal open in your lap and a leather bound copy of ‘Great Expectations’ lay next to you, the page marked waiting for you to pick up from where you had left off the previous evening. As you thumbed the pages of your journal to find the next blank page, you had to smile at the little doodle of a Christmas tree that caught your eye in the top right hand corner of a page you’d written a few days back, the day you’d convinced Ransom that he should at least get one Christmas Tree. He’d obliged, had one; only the one, delivered and permitted you to decorate it how you’d wanted to and even managed a little smile when you stepped back and proudly showed the finished product to him. Then, of course, quid-pro-quo, he had had expected something in return which you’d given, because let’s face it, he’d have taken it anyway.

You’d seen a softer side to him that day, and not for the first time either. Granted, non-asshole Ransom wasn’t an everyday feature by any stretch of the imagination, but you’d seen it twice now. You paused, and then thumbed back a few pages to the day you were now remembering, the day you’d first been confronted with a very different Ransom to the one you were used to dealing with. One that came out of nowhere.

It was a wet day, an early winter storm passing through New England. You were sure it could have snowed but instead, it was just wet and cold. He'd come down with breakfast, instead of inviting you up. He'd brought you warm oatmeal with cream and cinnamon, a small bowl of blueberries on the side and a pinch dish of raisins, having forgotten how you took your oatmeal. A cup of coffee, steaming on the tray. He'd set up your breakfast on the table and sat across from you, not eating. He hadn't even brought coffee for himself. 

You'd assessed his mood as morose, distant even. You didn't press, but rather waited for him to out himself and his particular mood. You'd come to recognize when he was thinking and this morning, he was all thought and no presence. 

"I'll be gone most of the day," he finally came clean, just as you'd finished your oatmeal. 

"Okay," you replied. He hadn't ever really announced his plans to you before. He'd just come and go at all times as he'd liked, never leaving you home alone without the doors locked. This willingness to let you in on his plans for the day fielded a small red flag in your mind and if you were honest with yourself, you felt like this was a test. He said nothing else, just picked up your breakfast dishes and left. 

In the time he was gone, you'd managed to shower, nap, write and read. You were growing hungry for dinner, having had to skip lunch in his absence. Then you heard it, the tell-tale signs of his return. The clicks of doors and sounds of boots on the floor above you. The jingle of keys, and a few failed attempts at unlocking your door. A 'fuck' and a 'God damn it' before the door opened and there he stood. Soaked to the bone, dressed in all black from his coat to his toes. Was that ice on the tips of his hair? Was he drunk or just having a moment? Fingers frozen from the cold. 

'Jesus Christ, you're soaked.'  You said as you took him in. His lips looked a little discolored, his skin more alabaster than ivory. Throwing caution to the wind, you grabbed your throw from the chair as you passed it by. 'Get that coat off,' you pulled at its thick woolen collar. The heavy fabric peeled away from his broad shoulders and you let it fall to the floor. You heaved the throw over him and pulled it closed around his thick chest. 'You're not getting sick and leaving me here to rot.'

You moved to give him some space and guide himself further into the room, but ice cold fingers wrapped around your wrist and you stopped dead in your tracks. Your eyes moved upwards from where his hand swallowed you're wrist, along the wet fabric of his black sweater, water droplet covered neck, to eyes that were lost and distant, just as they were that morning, but much worse. 

You were nearly as frozen as his fingers were, not sure what to say or do. Worried about consequence. So you just stared back. 

'Thank you', it was barely audible as the words poured from his lips. 

'Of course.' You weren't sure what he was thankful for but you replied anyway. Cautiously, you continued, 'Will you come sit down? Do you want something warm to drink?' You wanted to ask where he'd been but that was a slippery slope. 

'Not here,' he replied. 

'Upstairs then, in the lounge,' you suggested. He nodded and turned on his heel, a glance over his shoulder to see if you were coming. You followed, pulling your cardigan around you tightly as the chill from the basement filtered through you, or was it coming away from him, you weren't sure. 

You'd thought the lounge was where you were headed but instead, he'd headed for the kitchen, taking a seat at the table there. When he didn't provide instruction or conversation, you inhaled deeply and thought of something to warm you both from the inside-out. You felt his eyes on you as you gathered the ingredients you needed, cocoa, chocolate chips, milk. The cinnamon sticks from the cupboard. You were careful not to make too much of a clatter as you pulled the sauce pan from under the counter. 

In minutes, fresh hot chocolate was in two steaming mugs with whipped cream and freshly grated cinnamon. You handed him a mug and then sat across from him, your mug between your fingers. You watched as he sipped from his mug, blowing a little on the liquid before his lips touched it. His eyes closed as if he was stuck in a memory, his expression softening. 

His eyes opened and he sighed, 'I can't remember the last time I had something like this. I was just a kid, my nana was still alive. It amazes me how they turned out from the two of them.'

'Money changes people,' you commented. You assumed 'they' meant his family, or at least more specifically, his mother and her two brothers, one of which had been gone for years. 

He scoffed, 'fuck my family.'

Throwing caution to the wind, you asked, 'is that where you were?' You couldn't have guessed, given he was usually extremely angry and frustrated when he'd spent time with anyone in the Thrombey-Drysdale family tree. 

He frowned and nodded. 

'What happened?' You couldn't resist.

'Harlan's memorial.'

'Oh' . You said unable to think of anything else to respond with, because really what else could you say. He’d attended a memorial for the grandfather that would still be alive had it not been for him. 

'Oh, indeed,' he mused, long fingers flexing around the mug. 'Surely, you’ve figured out I wasn’t particularly welcome.' 

You couldn't say more, he wasn't wrong. You bit the inside of your lip and swallowed hard. He needed comfort. But would you give it to him? Was he deserving of that? Hell no, but your heart ached for him a little. It couldn't have been easy. But maybe this was his punishment for avoiding the ultimate consequence.

'Go on, say it.'

'Say what?' 

'That I deserve it.' He looked at you, 'I know that’s what you’re thinking.' He leaned back, 'maybe you’re right.' 

Well, that threw you. 'I don't know what I'm thinking, to be honest.' You leaned forward, intending to slip the mug from his hands and take them in yours, but you caught yourself and stopped. That was a step that you weren’t quite ready for, or willing as might be more accurate, to take. 'But, I can tell you're hurting and despite what happened, how it happened, you deserve to say goodbye without the rage and selfishness that got you here.'

'Well,' he leaned back and took another sip from his mug, 'that’s certainly not what they thought. Meg assured me I'm still the stuck up prick without my trust fund.'

A small smirk played over your lips, barely noticeable, 'fuck your family.' 

'Careful, Sweetheart,' he smirked, but there was no threat in his words, not this time. He was genuinely amused.

You managed a slight shrug, 'If there’s one thing I learned from writing about you and your ridiculously entitled family tree, it's that each and every one of you is all about everyone for themselves.' You took a deep breath, waiting for the repercussions to fall. 'What happened, happened. Now, this is what you have, so own it.' 

You flinched a little as his hand reached to scrub at his clean shaven chin, finger tracing his bottom lip as he studied you for a second before he took a deep breath and reached back for his mug. 'I think you need to make this for me more often.' He stated simply, and just like that, the deep foray into his emotions and psyche was over, and the barriers were closed once more.  

'Sure.' You nodded. 'Whatever you want.' 

At that he gave a little scoff. 'Sure, whatever I want.' 

Silence filled the room again, your mind not sure what to make of that last comment, and his was clearly working overtime, you could tell by the way his eyes were still glazed as he simply stared down at the mug in his hand. The rest of the time you sat by the table was quiet, and you were surprised to find yourself a little disappointed. This was the first real meaningful conversation you’d had with him since arriving here. Sure you’d talked, but never once had you got any insight into what exactly made him tick. You’d learned more in the last ten minutes or so than you had in the entire six weeks you’d been his captive.

His captive. 

The words echoed in your mind and you swallowed as you remembered exactly what it was you were doing here. This wasn’t by choice, this man wasn’t your friend or your lover, he was your captor, keeping you for his own entertainment, which he was no doubt going to be seeking from you again tonight.

'I think I need a shower,' he leaned forward, disturbing your thoughts.

'Okay,' You replied. 'I'll, uh, well you know where to find me when you're ready for me. Anything in particular you'd like me to wear tonight?' 

'No, not tonight,' he answered with assurance, his voice carrying a low yet soft tone. 'You can go read or whatever it is you do when I'm gone.' You blinked, temporarily dumfounded and he looked at you, snorting a little. 'What? You want me to come and have my way with you?' 

'Is that a trick question?' You blurted out before you could stop yourself, before you swallowed and waited for the admonishing, but it never came. Instead he chuckled and shook his head.  

'Didn’t think so.' With that he rose from his chair, reaching for your empty mug as he passed. His fingers lightly brushed yours and you were jolted by the sudden sparks that flew up your arm and you took a little breath as he passed, depositing your mugs in the sink. Without another word he breezed from the kitchen for the first time, leaving you alone in the room.

It left you perplexed. Completely and utterly perplexed. He never left you alone, even the weeks on your cycle he’d found other ways for you to satisfy him, with your mouth or your hand for instance, but tonight…

Taking a deep breath, you headed back to your room. You didn’t even look at the main door to the house, there was no point. It was always locked and you knew what the consequences would be if you left. Besides, you wouldn’t get far. Not to mention you had no idea where you actually where and the thought of being outside alone in the dark, frankly scared you to death. No, you were better here. At least you knew it was warm, and familiar.

You headed down the stairs and got ready for bed. You settled in with your book, and after a while your ears pricked up as you heard footsteps outside your room. You swallowed, clearly he had changed his mind. But, as you set your book aside, it wasn’t the sound of the door opening followed by his feet padding down the stairs that you heard, it was the lock clicking as he shut you in for the night.

The sound of the doorbell jerked you away from your memory. Ransom frowned and looked up from the screen of his laptop before his eyes caught yours and he gave a little smirk.

“Expecting someone?”

You rolled your eyes at his asshole joke and he chuckled to himself, grabbing his phone. As he saw who it was at the door his good humour slipped from his face and without another word he rose from his chair. He paused in the doorway and turned to you. “No funny business, remember…” 

 “Yes, I know.” You replied quietly. “You know where my family are.”

He hesitated, almost as if he was about to say something else, but he didn’t. Instead he turned and left the room to answer the door. 

The study wasn't far from the lounge merely the next room down, and the lounge was closest to the door so you tuned your focus to the voice speaking with Ransom. You recognized it and suddenly found yourself adjusting your tee and duster, making sure the cuffs on your jeans were even. You could hear the distress in his tone, the guest was unwanted and you hadn't realized you were now in the hall beside him. You noticed he took a step back towards you, as if he knew you were there. 

Linda Thrombey's eyes raked over you, in shock and disbelief. “What the hell is she doing here?” 

As she glared, you shifted uncomfortably, your hands pulling on the sleeves of the duster sweater you wore as you swallowed.

“She’s with me.” Ransom replied, his tone even.

“With you as in 'with you'?” Linda turned her eyes back to him, distaste evident on her face.

“Is that a problem, Mother, because you know where the door is.”

It was a problem, you could see it in her face as she once more looked at you, but instead of sniping back she simply took a deep breath and cleared her throat.

"No, I just wasn't aware you'd have company." Her eyes flicked back to Ransom who simply shrugged.

"Since when did you know anything about what I do on a daily basis, Mother?"

"Don't start, Ransom. I'm not in the mood and I didn't come here for a fight."

 "Then pray do tell, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Can you stop being such a sarcastic little shit for once in your life?" she snapped.

You stilled a little, your eyes flicking to Ransom and you were surprised to find that instead of the usual anger you expected, his face remained passive on the whole, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that, well had it been anyone else you'd have sworn was concern. But Hugh Ransom Drysdale wasn't concerned about anyone but himself...

“What’s happened?” he asked, his voice still gruff but there was a softer note to his voice. Linda took a deep breath and she shook her head.

"I felt a call to tell you wasn't appropriate and this needed to be handled in person." She fixed him with a look. “It’s your Greatnanna Wanetta. She died last night, Ransom.”

You froze, hearing the news leave his mother's mouth and you suddenly felt sorry for him. Ransom, stood there stoic, his eyes fixated on his mother.

“Was it peaceful?” he eventually asked, his voice measured.

“In her sleep.” Linda replied, her tone soft.

Ransom stayed silent for a moment, his chest rising and falling slowly as he took deep breaths. His expression was unreadable as he simply looked at his Mother, before he raised his eyebrows inhaling slowly.

“Was there anything else?” He exhaled, and Linda simply shook her head at him, a huff of annoyed laughter escaping her.

“That’s all you have to say?” She asked, incredulously, as Ransom shrugged with a petulantly nonchalant air, and you saw Linda’s face redden as she exploded "Oh for God's sakes, Ransom, you really are such a selfish little bastard, aren't you?”

“What do you want me to say?” He asked, his tone measured. “You said it was peaceful and she didn’t suffer.”

“No, I said she went in her sleep.” Linda corrected him. “I imagine she did suffer, how could she not after everything that happened, huh? Hell, she probably died of a broken heart”.

At that you saw Ransom’ nostril’s flare as his eyes burned into Linda’s face, a flush of red rising up his neck.

"Get out," he deadpanned. When Linda made no attempt to move, Ransom stepped forward yanked open the front door of the house, gesturing with his arm. “I’m not gonna ask again. Go.”

"Ransom..." Linda tried to strong arm her way to stay.

"Are you deaf or just fucking stupid?" Ransom replied, his voice didn't even raise in volume but something about it made you shiver. He was positively frightening when he was in this frame of mind.

You watched as Linda gave him a final glare and stepped outside without so much as a glance back, the slam of the door behind her making you jump.

Ransom saw his mother out but didn't return to the study, in fact he ignored Y/N's presence in the hall entirely. Instead, he sulkingly moved towards the wet bar in the lounge. He didn't even bother with the glass, he picked up the first bottle he could wrap his fingers around and white knuckled the neck, spinning the cap off, it clinking to the floor. He downed a long pull, the amber liquid burning sinfully as it coated his throat, his eyes stinging but not from the booze. 

“Are you okay?” Y/N’s soft voice startled him as he hadn’t heard her enter the lounge. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his hand over his face, and turned to look at her, his jaw clenching.

“Did I say you could leave the study? Did I say you could join the conversation with Linda?” His voice was steely, flat, but he knew full well that she understood that to mean he was pissed and she visibly recoiled in the doorway, her eyes widening. When she didn’t answer immediately he slammed the bottle he was holding down on the bar top, and when he spoke again his voice was louder as he demanded an answer. “Did I?”

“No.” She answered with a quiver, “But I…”

“But I…” he mocked, sneering before he scoffed. “You know considering how smart you’re supposed to be, at times you’re really fucking stupid.”

Y/N blinked a little, and opened her mouth to talk but she fumbled over her words as she frantically began to apologise, which simply served to irritate him even more. With a frustrated growl he reached out and grabbed her chin, forcing her head up to look at his.

"You do as I say, when I say it. That rule has NEVER changed," his voice was filled with venom. “I didn’t ask for your sympathy. And I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“That’s not...” she whimpered slightly, and the grip he had on her face tightened causing her to cry out. “Hugh, please!”

And there it was, that fucking name.

You immediately realised your mistake as his face burned red and his lips curled up into an ugly sneer.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…you were hurting me and…”

“You think I give a shit?” He spat, and the hand suddenly released your face only to wrap painfully in your hair. Without so much as another word he began pulling you from the room, ignoring your shouts of pain and protest as you wrapped both your hands around his wrists, desperately trying to get him to release you. But it was no good, the more you struggled, the tighter his grip became.

Before you knew what had happened he’d dragged you to the door that led to your room and down the stairs, your feet slipping slightly, causing you to stumble, harshly banging your knee on the bottom few steps where he finally released you, shoving you harshly. Your balance already gone, you stumbled and collided harshly with the side of the vanity table, the pain in your cheekbone causing you to yell out once more as the stars exploded in front of your eyes.

It took you a moment to shake off the daze, and when you finally did you looked up to see his retreating back heading up the stairs, slamming the door behind him. With a gasp you slumped down, your back against the wood of the dressing unit, your hand reaching up to your tender face. From somewhere upstairs in the house you heard another door slam, then a moment or so later there was a roar of an engine, which was followed by nothing but eerie silence.

Hugging your knees to your chest you let out a sob as the tears streaming as uncontrollably down your face.

***** All he could see was rage. Red, hot, firey rage. He slammed the basement door and didn't miss the bar cart on his way out, a full bottle of top shelf scotch in his hand, coat and keys in the other. He drove for miles, no destination in his conscious mind but a rather interesting one in his subconscious.

Headstones came into view until his SUV stopped at the end of the grassy knoll where the mausoleum stood surrounded by trees. He climbed out of the car, bottle clutched in his hand and shut the door behind him, simply leaning against the dark metal of his vehicle. For a long while, he didn't move, he simply stared at the entry, gulping large pulls of the scotch as he stared. His thoughts raced and raced, almost making him dizzy. It was that or the fast burn of the booze.

It felt like a flash of his life replaying in his mind. His great-nana, his grandparents, his parents, a life of entitlement growing up, parties, recreational drugs, booze, women, his fight with Harlan, his sudden plot to commit murder and then the crime, his arrest, and then the visions came to a halt with a mind bending pain and at the end of that pain was Y/N.

Her face, her scent, her voice. The way she felt beneath him, around him…those breathy, little moans, sighs. They’d connected recently, Ransom was sure of it, ever since he’d invited her upstairs and let her do something as mundane as cook. They talked more, engaged more, he no longer fucked her and left, instead he’d dress and hang around for a while, and he liked it. But then, today, after his Mother’s visit, those eyes which had mesmerised him from the moment he’d met her had once more reflected fear and confusion.

And Ransom didn’t like it.

Where that fear had, at one point, given him a buzz, now it simply served to remind him exactly how things had been when he had first taken her, and he didn’t like that one bit. He’d grown to crave the other things, like the way she would touch his arm or squeeze his hand. The way she smiled and spoke. The way she made him feel human, not some ghastly, beastly monster capable of killing someone. But he hurt her, more times than he wanted to admit. He hurt her and did things to her, he was vile and despicable. He WAS those things everyone said. 

He was a fucking monster.

He felt the upheaval of emotions begin to collapse around him and he fell to his knees. The sting started and he couldn't stop it. An outpouring of emotions, years, decades even of built up anger, resentment, unhappiness, disgust, fear, pain all erupted in a strangled cry as his chest heaved and his heart raced. Salty steaks of tears wet his cheeks.

And all Ransom Drysdale felt in that moment in time was utter defeat.

His Greatnanna, the only other member of his family who truly ever cared about him, that remained on his side or remotely understood him other than Harlan was now gone and the realization of loneliness hit him like a ton of bricks. His body shook, his chest ached, his mind grew numb and all he could do was cry. 

What the fuck had he become, WHO had he become? What did he do? Why did he do it? This was all his fault, Harlan didn't deserve to be cold in the ground. He did this, all of this. Again, but why?

He had absolutely no answer other than because he could. 

It grew cold, dark, and late. The scotch was gone, his eyes burned and he couldn't breathe through his nose. At this point he didn't care if he made it back in one piece. He was a piece of shit and deserved everything that came to him by way of a tragedy. He climbed into his SUV and tried to collect enough sobriety to drive towards home. Towards her.

******

You had no idea how long you sat on the floor, but by the time you finished crying and had mustered enough about you to move; you were cold, stiff and aching from sitting in the same position for so long. Your face hurt from the blow you’d taken against the dresser, your knee hurt from where you’d banged it but all that paled into insignificance to the pain that was going on inside your chest.

You didn’t understand why Ransom had flipped like he had. For a few weeks now, things had been okay between you, good even. He’d been reasonably amenable to most of your requests and dare you say it, almost happier in himself. But all this served to remind you what lay underneath that façade. A dangerous narcissist with the ability to swap his face and mood at the click of a finger.

Or, in this case, a visit from his mother.

You wiped at your face, hissing as your fingers brushed your tender cheekbone and with a slight whimper of pain you pushed yourself up off the floor and stumbled over to your bed where you lay down and curled up, hugging your pillow to your chest.

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you recall it was dark and you were still cold. Whilst the basement was equipped with heaters, you couldn’t shake the chill from your bones so you decided that your best option to warm up, and ease your aches and pains was a nice, hot bath. Stretching out slightly, you gave yourself a moment before you pushed yourself up, flicking on the lamp on the nightstand before you got up and headed into the bathroom, flicking on the light. 

You paused at the basin unit, glancing at your reflection and you swallowed at the sight of the bruise that was already forming around your right eye and cheek socket. Swallowing the emotion you felt at seeing your face marked once more in such a way, you turned your attention to the bath and the suddenly remembered that the other night Ransom had presented you with a bag from a Boutique you liked that sold home-made soaps and bath bombs, clearly having been in one of his good moods that day. You had yet to unpack it all and put it in the bathroom, so, deciding that you were going to use one tonight, you turned to head back and grab the bag, but as you emerged into the main part of your room, you were stopped short as a thick chest, covered in a ribbed white tee, a hint of a cardigan peeking out as broad shoulders kept warm by a camel coloured coat blocked your path.

You gasped and felt your belly drop out. Your body immediately began quaking in fear as he stood so close to you. You cowered away, taking a half step back but it wasn't enough to put space between you as his hand gently grabbed your upper arm and pulled you into his chest, a shriek emitting from your voice. 

"Don't," his voice cracked. "Don't scream, I'm not gonna..." his words trailed off and he just shook his head. 

He held you against him. You were sure he could feel you trembling as his large hands pressed against your back. You inhaled a deep, shaky breath through your nose and was met with his scent. He smelled so good, like an expensive aftershave with hints of amber and sandalwood, cedar and vanilla but there was an underlying, distinct aroma of alcohol, scotch you suspected, unless you were mistaken.  

You felt his face press into your hair as he took a large, shaky deep breath, as if he was inhaling your scent, which he exhaled before he pulled away, his hands cupping your face. He tilted your face slightly so he could examine your left cheek and you saw him swallow as he took in your bruising. Something stirred behind his eyes, a sad melancholy that you’d seen only once before crossed his arrogantly handsome features, and his head dropped slowly to yours. He held your jaw in his big hands, his lips on yours. You didn’t fight, fighting was futile, but as the kiss continued it soon became clear that this wasn’t like any of the times he had kissed you in the past. No, this one was soft, like a need to just feel you pressed against him. His plump lips pulling yours in and holding you there and you realised, from the lingering taste of something sweet yet ever so slightly tinged with sour, that your suspicions were correct.

Despite your earlier fear, you willed yourself to relax into the relative comfort. It was like he was back to how he had been before his mother had visited and whilst he was in that frame of mine, you knew you were safe, so keeping him there was in your best interests. Your fingers moved from your sides to his chest, the ribbed tee rough against your skin. You continued your movements as his mouth pulled you in just a little more until he traced his tongue over your bottom lip. Your fingers moved out to and up the lapels of his coat, the soft texture like a cottony suede under your fingertips, before settling on the back of his neck, his smooth skin and hairline a definitive juxtaposition to feel. He didn't balk or pull away as he had done previously when you’d tried to show him affection, and you continued to respond to his kiss, your touch seeming to be a comfort for him and in the back of your mind you wondered what had changed to make him act this way. He broke away and rubbed his nose along yours, almost as if he were touching a butterfly, soft and unsure. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..." He continued to whisper, over and over. A soft, barely there kiss to your bruises and broken skin and more words, "Let me take care of you."

You were scared to admit that this felt good, the way he was being gentle, apologetic even. Pain radiated from his body once again, like it had just a few weeks ago, his eyes telling you everything he was feeling. The outpouring of emotions there were hard to ignore. You weren't sure if forgiveness was in your repertoire, but compartmentalization was. You looked back at him, and with a slow blink, almost hypnotized, you nod in reply to his request. 

Long fingers reached out and tucked a tendril of hair behind your ear, the other hand simply cradling your jaw. You swallowed hard as he bent down and placed his lips on your neck. Your body shivered at the feel of his mouth warm against your skin. His breath hot on your ear, “do you trust me?”

"I don't know," your voice was breathy as you replied. 

“Let me fix this," his voice wavered. It was a question, not a demand. He nipped at your skin and you shivered again from a combination of desire and disgust at the way this asshole could make you feel, how traitorous your damned body was. 

Ransom felt her breath hitch against his touch. She wasn't fighting him, she wasn't combative, she was...receptive. The thought nearly made him crow for, in that moment, he could feel her trust in him coming in, even if she couldn't verbalize it. He was debating on his lips devouring hers but he was... oh God, he was actually afraid of losing her in the moment. Of her closing herself off. No, he thought, it's best to wait. Ignoring the throw blanket on the floor and the mugs of cocoa on the table, Ransom held her face in her hands. "Do you trust me?" He asked again. She swallowed hard and blinked again, slowly. It was as fair if a reply as he'd get. He could see the war in her eyes, her mind battling with her feelings, her heart. "Stay here."

He left her standing there while he started the hot water. He could feel her eyes on him, watching his every move. He felt different, better even, from the moment he sought her attention when he'd come home. He started the tub faucet and as he brushed past her again, he shucked his coat, tossing it on her bed. He took a small bag he'd brought her earlier in the week and carried it with him. He emptied the contents of a small vile like bottle and watched a moment as bubbles began to firm in the hot but tolerable water. With the bath filling, he sighed to himself and turned to face her.

He peeled his own dusty blue cardigan over his shoulders and let it set over the basin unit. He pushed the sleeves of his white thermal up his forearms and held his hand out to her. She hesitated but slowly slipped her hand in his. He pulled her close and his hands gathered the lapels of her cardigan and peeled it away from her. Underneath her cardigan, Y/N sported a firm fitting white tee and jeans that looked well fitted for her hips and ass, toned legs, bare feet curling into the tiled floor. Ransom salivated as her nipples hardened through the material. He realized she had no bra on under her tee and his hand gently slipped under her rib cage, his thumb padding over her pert nipple. He lifted the thin white tee away from her body and tossed it to the floor. He was half hard just at the thought of her naked under her clothes and now he was solid. Discomfort growing by the second. 

A hooked knuckle traced down her sternum, between her breasts and along the center of her taught stomach. He watched as goose flesh covered her exposed skin. As his knuckle reached the waistline of her jeans, he took to his knees, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses to her belly, just above her flies. With just his fingers, he undid the button, unzipped the zipper and the peeled the material away from her legs, all the while deep blue eyes peered up at her. He wasn't disappointed to find she'd still worn panties under the rough material, in fact he was delighted. His eyes roved down to her black, lace panties and he reached out, fingers gently tracing long the detailed waistband. Those came down next and as she stepped out of the material, Ransom's hands traced patterns up her leg, faint kisses to her thigh, her hip, her belly. He stood and admired Y/N, completely bare, with less than a foot of space between them.

Ransom hummed, his right hand reaching out, pads of his fingers again trailing a path down the valley of her heaving breasts to her navel. He paused as her breathing hitched and with a smirk his hand dropped lower still, over the faint tuft of hair he insisted she kept groomed, his fingers slipping into her folds. She gave a soft gasp, eyes widening as he continued to tease her, her hands reaching to up to grasp at his biceps as he played with her. She was wet, so wet from just this little bit of play and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he pushed two fingers inside of her. 

He leaned forward, mouth brushing the shell of her ear, “Just say the words and I’ll make you feel so damned good, Sweetheart, like you’ve never felt before.” Ransom pulled away, removing his fingers from where they’d been, his hand curling on her hip, sticky with her essence. He backed her toward the tub's edge, his forehead pressed into hers. All motion stopped the second the back of her legs touched the tub. "Get in," he whispered. 

You sunk down into the water, the aromatic smell of calming lavender swallowing your senses. Bubbles covered your body, to the point they tickled your collar bone. You eyed him kneeling as he reached over you, grabbing the natural sea sponge loofah and dipping it into the water before he squeezed it over your skin, gently scrubbing. Your face once more met his and you carefully watched him as he exhibited a patience you had never seen from him before. Those blue orbs bore into you, but still he made no move to take you.

And it was unnerving.

But then, as you stared into those deep, icy blue pools something suddenly clicked in your mind. He wanted you to want him. That was what this was about. He’d spent his entire life with people who regarded him as unworthy of love or any kindness and he was seeking validation. Whilst you could see he was genuinely hurting, you also still knew this man was violent, angry, had taken you without your permission, taken what he wanted from you and when. You knew he would take what he wanted tonight too, regardless of what your answer was, the moment for you to back out had been and gone.

But something felt so good about his touch that you were shivering in anticipation of more rather than in fear and the feeling of enjoyment on your mind started to overpower the feeling of disgust in your belly as your core tightened with each breath you felt against your skin. You blinked, your head a whirl, as you were shamefully turned on despite the depraved nature of this entire situation. You broke from your thoughtful trance as a hand cupped your face, a thumb pad tilting you chin upward just a pinch to look at him,

"What?" You whispered. 

"Let me in?" He asked, his tone a bit contrite and hopeful. 

When she nodded in a slow reply, Ransom felt his stomach drop out from under him. Butterflies grew to take flight like an albatross deep in his gut. He dropped the sponge in the water and stood tall, towering over the tub. He reached behind his neck, between his shoulder blades and pulled the thermal over his head, his hair catching slightly on the fabric. He ran a hand through it to straighten it back up and tossed the garment to the floor. He watched as her eyes grew noticeably wide as they roamed over his taught, well-formed abs, his bare chest. He flexed a little, his muscles twitching as he focused on the buckle and flies of his pants. He'd kicked his boots off as he'd undone his belt, the clank an ignored sound as all he could do was watch her and she him. Ransom allowed the material to fall between them, his pants hitting his ankles and he was quick to slip out of his pants and socks. He palmed his hard cock through his boxer briefs as she watched him touch himself.

He could see the change in her, the look of desire and lust in her eyes. The way she was admiring him now, rather than cowering at him. She was appreciating what was before her. His pale skin, his sculpted body, his naked form. He’s seen her, stripped her bare. But normally he's pulled his dick out and just fucked her. This was uncharted territory, this was new. And he liked it. He liked the way she was looking at him, feeding his ego and willingly participating. This, yes, this was something fun for him. And oh yeah, she wanted this, he could see it all over her.

One foot, then the other, Ransom stepped into the tub and sat opposite of her, careful to avoid the faucet. The water felt inviting, the company even more so. Her one leg nestled between his legs while the other just to the outside of them. She slid her left foot up close to his thigh, bending her leg at the knee. At this new comfortable position, his fingers started drawing intricate circles along her shin and calf. He watched her inhale deeply and tilt her head towards her shoulder, observing him. 

As you watched him, carefully, you saw him swallow, the hollow of this throat constricting a little before he took a deep breath, his touch on your leg still feather light. You wanted to lose yourself, give into the desire that you were feeling whether it be wrong or right, at that point in time you were past caring. You were in this position, nothing was going to change that, so was it really wrong to want to feel something more than fear? It was like there was a game of chess being played between your mind and heart, your gut and will.

And then, Checkmate, the idea came to you. You had a chance here to keep Ransom satisfied but on your terms. You had the power. And as long as you kept it that way you could control his temper and his actions, and get what you now shamefully admitted to yourself that you wanted.  And the realisation that you had the winning move here was almost liberating.

Ransom shifted a little, the water sloshing around him as he sat up, his chest poking a little further out of the water as he studied your face, and you waited to see what he would do. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, he was clearly going through a mental battle himself and eventually he licked his lips, his gaze dropping to your breasts which were just under the water line and he swallowed once more before his hand on your leg stilled and he squeezed your calf muscle gently before he moved, leaning forward, his large hand once more resting against your cheek as he drew you in for another deep, gentle kiss.

You leaned into him, letting his lips works softly against yours as your hand dropped under the water and grasped his solid cock, giving him a gentle stroke. The kiss stuttered immediately, and he let out a choked groan as his eyes flew open, locking onto yours.

“Sit back.” You encouraged, and he did just that, his back once more resting against the top as you followed him, your hand remaining soft but firm enough to keep drawing those noises of satisfaction from his throat. His head tipped back as he let you take control, his Adams apple bobbing, eyes closing as no words left his lips, no dirty talk, no hissed little demands about what depraved position he wanted you to adopt, nothing. You held the power, and that turned you on in a way it really shouldn’t.

He gave a strangled hiss as you gripped him tighter and then you shifted, letting go to allow yourself to move your right knee to his left side, following with your other, his eyes flying open, a look of surprise on his face as you lined yourself up and his hands reached up, surprisingly gentle as they rest against your hips. There wasn’t much room, but it was doable, and you sank down onto him, his eyes flying to your hips as you both gave a little whimper as he filled you completely.

His fingers flexed against your skin, blunt nails biting ever so slightly, as you remained still, your hands sliding up his chest, curling over his shoulders. He was tense, coiled like a spring, clearly fighting back the urge to slam up into you and you began to work at a little of that tension, fingers rubbing up and down his neck, the index on your right trailing that vein that was bulging along his throat. His eyes never left yours until you softly began to knead at the strained muscles along his shoulders and neck, massaging deeply as you worked at the knots, his hands still resting on your hips, contracting every so often as you found a particularly knotty spot.

Every so often, he would make the slightest of movements, simply because he was relaxed and you could feel your walls fluttering sporadically, just from being full and stretched to your fill. But, still he made no move to take over, until at one point you hit a particularly knotty area at the point his neck met his collar bone and he gave a little jolt which caused you to groan and he opened his eyes, searching almost for permission. When he found no objection, his hands gently started rocking you.

The pressure and friction on your clit was boiling. It was slow and burned in a way that was so delightful it was almost painful. And, before you could stop yourself you were rolling into him as he kept that same delectably slow rhythm, rocking you back and forth slowly, deeply, before one hand left your hips and grasped the back of your neck, pulling you down for a deep kiss.

Ransom pulled away from her, breathless, his forehead against hers. The words were barely heard, but he knew he said, "I want you..."

"You have me," she replied in a soft whisper. 

"Not here," he shook his head, their foreheads rubbing. He glided his nose against hers. 

He missed the way she felt around him the second she managed to stand and slip out of the tub. Ransom was quickly behind her, following, bubbles and water dripping to the floor from them both be damned. He followed her to the bed where she stood at its edge, her eyes inviting him. He took a seat, bare ass and thighs soaking the comforter, knees bent over the edge. His eyes roamed her body, taking her all in. His own deep appreciation for her firm an awakening in his soul.

Slowly, just like she had in the tub, one knee slipped passed a hip, the other following. His lips were on her breasts, inhaling the scent of the oils and bubbles clinging to her skin as his tongue traced a hardened nipple and then the other. As he did so, she sunk back down his shaft again, a guttural groan escaping them both. She was ready, the thick vein of his cock giving a seductive friction against her wall.

Ransom ran his hands up and down her back, long index finger tracing up and down her spine as hot open mouth, needy kisses covered as much skin as he could. His hands splayed over her shoulder blades as his hips met her grind, catching her as Y/N arched into his movements. Her head tipped back, sheer wanton pleasure radiated from her with a heat he could almost feel. His mouth moved to the spot he knew drove her wild on her neck under her ear and the little whimper she made was nothing short of delectable. 

As he began to lean back towards the mattress, he rolled her body against his, bringing her down with him. He planted his heels against the comforter and scooted them both to the center of the bed, still buried deep inside her. With a hand back to her hip, a gentle grip keeping his own pace with her rhythm, the other tangled in her messy hair as his tongue dove deep into her mouth, savoring each pass her own tongue made against his. He could feel her body flutter against him, sweet kisses her walls made against his solid cock. Her hands braced herself against his broad chest as she sat up, riding him with fluid, long rolls of her hips and he shivered, despite the searing fire between them. He was no longer fighting that desire to take control, he was more than happy to let her take the lead and respond accordingly, dare he say he was enjoying it. The slowness and sheer intimacy was something he never knew he’d craved until now and as she gave a particularly desperate roll of her hips he groaned, "Fuck yeah, Baby, just...like...that..."

A gasp and a shudder ran through you, your walls clenching down on him as a rush of power surged through your entire body. You rolled your hips deeper against him, the friction against your clit nearly too much. You brought your eyes down and looked down at his face, strong jaw, piercing eyes, his thick bottom lip sucked between his teeth. You had full control over him, beneath you he was as powerless as you had been made to feel. "Oh, God," you’re ready to sing a song of pure ecstasy as your body coils and tightens under your own volition. The signs of orgasm were just...right...there.

As you felt a deep thrust from his hips, hitting your sensitive and perfect spot within, your head lulled back and you felt his name roll off of your tongue, "Ransom...."

At the sound of his name spilling from her mouth Ransom gave a groan. It wasn’t Hugh, or Drysdale, it was Ransom. The one thing she had refused to say from day one and she had finally let herself go enough to give in to what he knew she wanted. His chest swelled, a warm feeling flooding from his toes right to his head and he surged up, his lips on hers, the kiss sloppy as with an easy movement he flipped them both so she was underneath him, all semblance of self-control now lost as her voice echoed round his mind, the soft, sultry way in which she’d cried his name repeating like a prayer. 

"Gimme one more, baby, just one more..." his hips were thrusting hard, but not painfully so."Say it again, please," his voice was laced with fire and emotion, a whimper or sob nearly on his lips.

"Ransom...." she replied coming again and his fingers gripped into her skin, holding her in place as his seed shot deep into her, filling her, his entire body shaking, no nearly convusling as he came.

Breathlessly, they laid there, his body gently caging her in, her fingers curling around his neck and into the nape of his hair.

“Thank you.” He whispered, and you blinked, not quite sure you’d heard him right.

“What for?” You asked, your breath still punctuated by your gasps as you came down from your high.”

“For trusting me.” His nose nudged yours and you looked into his eyes, “for forgiving me.”

“I’m not sure I have.” You replied honestly, and a frown furrowed his brown before he sighed and closed his eyes, his head hanging a little.

“That’s fair, I suppose.” He looked back at you before he moved, pulling out of you and immediately you missed his presence, the heat of his body gone as he rolled to his side. You waited for him to rise and dress as he usually did but he made no effort to move. Instead he lay still, looking up at the ceiling before he turned onto his side, his fingers gently trailing down your bruised cheek as it brushed the soft pillow when you turned to look at him.

“Can I stay?” He asked.

It was a pointless question. Because, let’s face it, you didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t want to go he wasn’t going to, and it wasn’t like you could leave. But, nevertheless, the fact he had bothered to ask you in the first place was another first. And you found yourself suddenly believing that if you did say no, he would leave.

Instead you nodded, and he gave you a small smile, not a sneer or a smirk, a genuine smile that lit up his handsome face as he leaned over and pressed his lips tenderly to yours.

Together you managed to get yourself under the duvet before you reached up for the lamp and clicked it off before settling on your side, facing away from him.

“My err, my cheek hurts.” You said quietly, offering him an explanation as to why you’d turned your back on him. He gave a small sigh and one of his arms snaked under your neck, the other curled round your bare body, resting just underneath your breasts. He gave your shoulder a gentle kiss, another unspoken apology before you felt him tug you back into him, your back pressing against the hard wall of his chest.

He was the first to fall asleep, his body spent as was yours but you laid there still feeling the electricity roll through your muscles, tiredness settling into your bones. You had given him what he wanted but kept your ground and done it on your terms. It's what he'd needed this entire time, to hear his name from your lips, to be wanted to be cared about, to be "loved". You internally scoffed. To be loved... you doubted he had any idea what that actually meant, to be loved unconditionally. But as you’d questioned the other day over hot chocolate, was that really his fault?

This situation was fucked up. What you were doing was fucked up, but, if giving him what he wanted and what he needed kept you in the driving seat, so to speak, you could work with it.

**** Part 5

[visceravalentines]

Alright here's a mortuary story for y'all.

This was the first time I ever encountered a person who I think had not properly moved on after death. I hope it's not too anticlimactic, because it's absolutely not a Real Cool Haunting Story but it was real cool and haunting all the same to me. I guess you can decide for yourself.

I was working at a mortuary that sent two people out on every death call. One night, we got a call at about 9:00 PM for a woman who had died at home on hospice. However, the family did not want us to come pick her up until the next morning.

Now, this is unusual, but perfectly allowable; in my state, a dead body must be either embalmed or refrigerated within 24 hours of death. Sometimes people are waiting for other family members to arrive, sometimes they just aren't ready to have the mortuary take the person away, and so as long as we're within that 24 hour period, they can have all the time they need.

So at 7:00 the next morning, my partner and I roll up to the house. It was a small house, tucked back behind an overgrown yard and under a big tree that dropped some kind of seeds all over the driveway. We always enter the home without our equipment first so we can meet the family and see where we're going and what we're dealing with. This house was old and absolutely stuffed with items accumulated over a long and interesting life. There were boxes of books, little statues, lots of souvenirs from exotic places. It was most certainly a hoarding situation; the path from the front door to the bedroom was little more than two feet wide with furniture and odds and ends crammed in on either side. I remember seeing a little wrought iron spiral staircase going up to the second floor in the midst of all the stuff and wondering how the hell you'd even get over there.

The family present consisted of three adults, children of the deceased. When we arrived, almost 12 hours after their mother had passed, they were all visibly distraught and crying as though the death had occurred only minutes ago.

Now let me be clear, just about any emotion or display of emotion or response to the loss of a loved one is normal and fine. But I will also say, having interacted with hundreds of grieving people, fresh and ongoing tears 12 hours after the passing of an elderly woman who had been on the decline is not common. Most often, by the time we arrive, people have either exhausted themselves emotionally or are focused on the task at hand. But these three children were still openly devastated despite having spent so much extra time with her, which again, was unusual, but not strange.

Now the woman in question was in her late 80s or 90s. She was thin as a rail, lying in her hospice bed with her daughters on either side of her. She had an elegant face, and most notably, her hair was in a long, white braid that coiled down to her hip. I don't recall her final expression, but I remember she was striking, especially that hair.

My partner and I set about wrapping her in a clean white linen and placing her in a canvas sling we used to carry her out of the house. The walkway was too small for us to bring in our cot, so we lowered it to the ground in the driveway and carried her all the way outside with the sling. Removals are like puzzles. Sometimes the hard part is figuring out the best way to get the person from point A to point B safely and respectfully.

All in all, this was a pretty easy call. We bid the family farewell, brought the woman back to the mortuary, and I think I went on to work a funeral service all day after that. I didn't think much about that family or their mother again, until two nights later.

I was on removals again and we got called out in the middle of the night. Different partner this time. We did the call, came back to the mortuary, and split up to get the post-call routine done quickly so we could go home and back to bed. We were in the basement, where we had our embalming room, the cooler, and where we kept the embalmed bodies. This was a pretty good sized funeral home. We had three embalming tables, our cooler could fit up to 14 bodies, and at any given time we usually had 6-10 embalmed cases out on tables or in caskets, sometimes more. I had been doing removals for a while. I had been around decedents in various stages of postmortem preparation. I was extremely comfortable being in the basement at night surrounded by corpses.

We kept our spare linens in a cupboard in the embalming room. We had a big portable speaker in there that we used to jam tunes while working. Someone had left it on, including the very bright rainbow-shifting rave lights, so I didn't even bother turning on the main light. There were two bodies on the embalming tables. One of them caught my eye as I passed. Something about her gave me pause. Something was...off. I don't know how to describe it besides saying...she didn't look dead.

When someone is dead, they very rarely look like they are sleeping. There is something missing. They may look just like themselves. They may look peaceful. They may even look better than the last time you saw them! But they do not look alive. Something vital has left, and all that remains is an empty shell.

So this woman caught my eye, because despite the fact that she was embalmed, covered in a sheet, very obviously and unquestionably dead, my brain registered something...different. For lack of a better description, something less dead. It took me a few seconds to recognize her as the same woman with the braid. It took me a few more seconds to realize that my partner was no longer in the basement with me and had not been for a while. And then I realized that I did not feel alone.

Humans have a sense for when there are other humans around. It's the difference between being in a room with another person and being by yourself. That awareness of human proximity is not something conscious, usually. Unless you are in a mortuary, where there should not be any awareness of human proximity. Then it becomes very, very conscious.

I continued making up the cot, kind of stunned, not really sure what to do. In the nearly six months I had been working there, doing removals and working funerals, I had not once felt anything like this. I hoped for spooky experiences when I first started the job and was very quickly disabused of that notion. There's nothing spooky about death. It's organic and predictable. We are a fairly standard collection of cells, and someday, we will cease to function. But I could not shake the feeling, couldn't second-guess it away. I knew I was the only living thing in that basement and I knew I was not by myself.

I finished my work, sent the cot back up the elevator, met my partner upstairs. I was a little freaked out by this point and ready to go home and go to bed. We parted ways with the standard goodbye: "I hope I don't see you again!" I got in my car and left.

A few minutes later, I was sitting at a stoplight waiting for no traffic to pass, the only sound the click of my blinker. And it crept over me again. I knew I was not alone.

I didn't feel threatened or unsafe. I didn't see a shape in the rearview mirror or feel breath on my neck. I just...wasn't the only person in the car. And I did not like this, because it was strange and unusual. So I did what we often do, when we feel a particular connection to a decedent. I talked to her.

I don't remember everything I said, but I remember how I concluded. I told her firmly, "You can't come home with me. Whatever you want, I am not the person who can help you get it. You have to stay with your body. You can't come with me." A few seconds later, the presence faded. The light turned. I drove home.

I don't know what happened after that. I assume the family held a viewing, and the children cried, and then she was laid to rest. I didn't interact with them again. I didn't see her body again. The next day, when I went to work, the building was bright and full of the living and I couldn't pick out anyone who wasn't supposed to be there.

Since then, there have been a handful of times when I felt that same sense of presence where there is meant to be absence. There was the time my partner turned to me uncomfortably and said, "...do you feel that?" as we left the home of an elderly woman who had died alone. There was the time we spent several hours in the apartment of a man who knew he was going to die and had left final instructions for his daughter. There was the time the family asked me if their son had given us any trouble (he had, in fact, and quite a lot of it). Sometimes, even if we move on properly, the energy of our selves and the impact of our lives lingers in spaces and people. Many times, I have felt the urge to do something for a decedent just because it feels like the right thing, something they would have wanted.

I don't believe in a higher power. I don't even believe in an organized afterlife. I don't know that our loved ones can send us signs or messages. But I believe there is something more to us than electrical impulse. And sometimes, I think it sticks around a little longer than it's meant to, for one reason or another.

[mlmdarkfiction]

Gun anon here. First of all, I can't believe you'd call me out like that, how dare you, and second of all, can I request a drabble/fic or smth with Michael Myers and a gun? I know they're not really his M.O. but I love him and I crave it (also: do I need to get specific or anything or can I just say go wild with whatever idea you come up with?)

SOMEHOW THIS ENDED UP THE SAME LENGTH AS LIKE ?? A LOT OF THE COMMISSIONS I DO WHY DID I GO SO HARD AT THIS ONE MICHAEL MYERS FIC. I’m not mad im just...confused @ myself. 

anyway I hope you enjoy

Possible CW’s: NSFW, DMAB Reader, Home Invasion, Guns, Gun Kink, Death (not the readers or Michael’s)

Read on AO3:

Read Below:

It’s a rhythmic banging sound that first got your attention, leading you to the kitchen. It’s the back door.

Someone, or something must have left it hanging open, allowing for the slight breeze from outside to send it gently crashing into your cabinets.

You know for a fact you aren’t responsible for the open door.

Try as you might, you can’t even remember the last time you’d even used the back door, but…

You’re not worried.

Perhaps you’re the only person in all of Haddonfield, who could be unbothered at the prospect of an intruder in your home.

And you’re definitely the only person in Haddonfield hoping the intruder is Michael Myers.

Weird Roommate?

Friend?

Lover?

In reality, you have no idea how you should describe your relationship with The Shape.

Michael is truly an enigma, as most would guess.

Everything he does is unpredictable.

He comes and goes as he pleases, almost never locking or closing doors behind himself, you’re used to it at this point.

And at the end of the day, you know that whether you want him to or not, Michael will always come back.

At least, up until now he’s always found his way back into your home.

You hope that the door being left wide open is a sign that Michael’s finally returned home.

The door is shut, and you’re smiling. Honestly this is a big step for Michael, as it appears he’s not left you a trail of blood to clean up.

Perhaps he was finally learning manners?

Or maybe after so long of being away he simply hadn’t wanted you to yell at him for leaving yet another mess.

There’s no rush in trying to find Michael.

As every other time he’s come to visit, you know he’ll find you when the time is right.

It may not be intentional, although you really think it is, Michael always ends up scaring you.

He thinks it’s funny. Even though you can’t see his face, you know he does. He loves seeing the way you jump at his sudden appearances throughout your shared home.

Nothing about your night changes. You carry on the exact same way you would have if you hadn’t discovered the open door.

After making a bowl of popcorn you settle down on your couch to watch the Countdown to Halloween horror movie marathon on your TV.

About twenty-minutes into some B-Slasher film when you hear it. A crash from upstairs.

Suddenly you feel a lot more on edge.

Michael’s not…

Michael isn’t the type to make much noise at all.

You try to reason with yourself, to tell yourself that it’s just Michael, that he must have dropped something…

But you’re unable to convince yourself.

Stupid Horror Movie.

“Michael?” It’s a soft call at first, and yet...It’s loud enough that the noises you’d been hearing from upstairs come to a complete stop.

The sudden silence does nothing for your already frazzled nerves.

All you hear now is the soft sound of your feet against the carpet as you make your way to the bottom of the stairs.

Looking up you see absolutely nothing. No sudden Michael to assuage your fears.

“This isn’t funny, Michael!”

Even using your angry voice gets you nothing in response, and it causes you to quickly come to terms with the fact that if you want to go back to relaxing, then you’re going to have to investigate the cause of the noise yourself.

The irony of this whole situation isn’t lost on you however, a chill runs down your spine as the poor soon-to-be-dead woman on TV calls out ‘Hello?’ into her own, stranger infested, home.

Everything about this seems like it’s a parody, the stairs even creak underneath you as you make your way up.

Suddenly you’re all too aware of the source of the crash.

Not Michael.

Definitely not Michael.

“You’ve made this easy on me,” Your blood goes completely cold as this stranger turns to you, gun pointed directly at you. Anything you could do or say is completely null. The situation, your body...It all feels frozen.

“Show me where you keep the real valuables.”

Slowly your body begins to unfreeze, and you force yourself to nod in response to the armed intruder.

There’s nothing but the pounding of your heart in your ears as you continue to your bedroom.

As soon as you make your way to the doorway the man grabs you roughly from behind, you can’t help the small scream that leaves your panicked lips at the sudden touch. “Where?”

“Under the bed.”

“Go.” He’s shoving the gun into your lower back, inspiring you to follow his commands, as, even through your shirt, you can feel the guns barrel.

You nod, risking a glance back at your captor.

Your breath hitches but...you relax.

Michael.

For real this time, it’s Michael, standing completely unnoticed domineeringly  behind the armed man.

Even with his mask on as always, you can feel the intensity radiating off of him. The malevolent energy is so strong, you’re surprised the Intruder seems to be completely unaware it’s no longer the two of you.

“I said get the good shit!”

Finally you’re snapped out of your shock and relief, and you nod your head again. Crouching down you put on the facade of retrieving your safe from below the bed.

Michael doesn’t make you wait.

“What the-”

From your position you can’t tell what exactly Michael did, but the crashing of the gun on the ground is a relief, at least until you realize if it had fallen just right it could have easily gone off.

Still you quickly grab the gun with your shaking hands before rising to meet the scene before you.

This is the first time you’ve actually seen Michael in action.

Of course you know who Michael is, and what he does, but seeing it live….

Seeing it live is totally different.

Michael is holding the man in the air by his neck. You’re entranced watching the man's feet dangle uselessly, before pressing into Michael’s chest.

It doesn’t seem to matter how much he struggles or kicks, Michael doesn’t seem fazed at all.

Though you hate to admit it, there's something undeniably hot about Michael holding a struggling man in the air as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. The sight goes straight to your cock.

You’re so aroused-

You’re so entranced by Michael that you have to force your gaze away when it’s clear the struggling man is close to the end of his life.

His face is red, fingers desperately clawing at Michael’s hands as if it would somehow be enough to free him from the crushing grip.

You shut your eyes tightly.

In this moment you’re dangerously aware of everything going on in the room with you; the pounding of your frantic heart isn’t loud enough to block out the last struggles, and gasps of the man, nor do you miss the way it all suddenly stops.

This silence is immediately followed by a thump, the thump of Michael dropping the now dead man onto your bedroom floor.

Michael is…

You don’t know what he’s doing.

You tell yourself you’re not afraid of him, and yet...you find yourself unable to open your eyes.  

The gun has grown warm in your now very nervous, sweaty hands.

With blood rushing in your ears you become hyper aware of your partly adrenaline, but mostly Michael caused boner, and the way that it’s straining painfully against the fabric of your pants.

A large hand, one that’s much larger than your own, develops your hand, the one holding the gun.

Slowly you open your eyes to find yourself face to face, or more accurately, face to chest, with Michael.

You watch Michael as he takes the gun from your grasp.

With his mask still on it’s nearly impossible to tell where Michael is looking, but it really seems like he’s staring at both the gun now in his hands, and at you as you watch him.

“Michael?” His name leaves your lips tentatively. You’re surprised by yourself, surprised by the fact there’s no waiver or tremble of fear noticeable in your voice.

His head tilts in a familiar response at your gentle call of his name, and now you’re sure you’ve gotten the man's full attention.

Briefly your eyes drop from Michael’s masked face to the dead body at your feet, before returning to the other man's covered face.

“Thank you…” After all, if Michael hadn’t intervened, it most likely would have been you dead on the floor.

There’s a hesitation, and then silence envelops you both once again.

Surprisingly, it’s Michael who ends the tension. A simple step forward is all it takes, before he’s pulling you close against his chest into a crushing embrace.

It’s odd.

You welcome the unusual affection, but it’s still odd.

Michael isn’t usually so...soft.

‘Maybe,’ you think, ‘He’d actually been worried.’

The hug is nice, but tight. You’re sure that’s because he’s unused to initiating such subtle affections.

You notice two things while in the hug though;

Michael is also hard, his cock straining the jumpsuit to press against your own while you embrace, and that Michael still has the gun.

It’s not pointed at you, of course, but you can feel it in his hand as he holds you.

Michael doesn’t break the hug.

As soon as you’d felt his erection you knew he likely wouldn’t.

The two of you, you’d done things like this before.

He is, to put it lightly, inexperienced, but he’s always been curious and eager.

Body kept flush against his own, you’re unable to do anything as he grinds his hips into your own as he desperately searches for friction.

A soft moan leaves your lips, and you have to keep from shuddering when you hear Michael give a deep inhale from within his latex mask.

The Shape doesn’t moan. In your experience, he never has, but you’ve learned how to tell Michael is enjoying himself.

You’ve learned to listen out for every deep breath, shuddering exhale, and low growl.

“Here,”

You take a step back, not missing the almost needy way that Michael tries to grip your shoulders in an attempt to keep you close.

“Let me help.”

Only you.

You’re the only person who could strip Michael Myers, and live to tell the tale.

His jumpsuit is easily removed, and no surprise to you, he’s completely bare underneath.

You leave the mask.

In all the time you’ve seen Michael, he’s only been maskless a handful of times, and every time it had been his own choice to remove it.

It’s a boundary.

A symbol of trust.

And no matter your relationship with the other man, you’re not about to overstep it.

Michael’s now completely naked aside from the mask, and his cock is standing at full attention.

It’s a full 7 ½ inches.

You watch as it bobs gently in anticipation as Michael gently adjusts his weight as he becomes used to the cool night air of your bedroom.

Like usual, this level of intimacy with Michael is prefaced by curiosity and need for relief.

It’s Michael’s pleasure that matters. It’s always been like that.

Despite the likeness of your bodies, you’re not sure Michael could pleasure you back, if he even knew how.

He pulls you in again, and you’re quick to fall into routine, dropping to your knees in front of the larger man.

There’s no waiting, no moment to catch your breath, Michael is straight to the point.

His scent quickly fills your senses as he lays his cock against your face.

He humps against it, rubbing the sweaty organ against your cheeks and nose, at one point you stop him as he’s getting dangerously close to thrusting into your eye.

You’re allowed a single deep breath before you take the head of his large cock into your mouth.

Not only is his musk overwhelming, but so is his taste.

Salt.

Sweat.

Skin.

Without thinking you moan wantonly around him, tongue wrapping around the head, licking his slit and the precum that had already started gathering there.

It’s only Michael who could get you to act in such a way.

To get you to act like an eager cock sucking whore, even knowing you’ll get nothing in return.

You’ve trained yourself to take his monster cock.

Or…

You’ve at least trained yourself to take most of it.

A gag still manages to leave your throat when your partner decides he’s had enough and wants more .

All it took was a single hard thrust for him to sheathe is aching member in your willing throat.

One day you think he may accidentally kill you with his cock.

Perhaps he’ll thrust too hard and accidentally puncture your esophagus.

Maybe he’ll just hold you far too tightly, far too close, as your mouth is filled, nose in the curls of his pubes unable to breath as he finishes.

The thought of dying by his cock...it makes your own twitch from it’s confines.

You’re so focused on your goal of taking the full 7 ½ inches in your mouth, that you don’t notice Michael shifting above you.

No, you’re left with no warning of what’s to come.

Metal presses softly to your cheeks, and instantly you freeze.

You begin taking short, panicked breaths of air through your nose, cock still clogging your airway, as you look up to Michael.

He’s just staring, no expression visible through the damned mask, and no real reaction to your stopping or to your very clear fear.

Instead of stopping, or showing any sort of intent, Michael just begins to gently trail the gun lower.

The steel  traces down your jaw, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and eventually rests right under your chin.

You relax, if only slightly, knowing Michael won’t shoot with his dick in your mouth.

He’s been shot enough times now to know it hurts, and would likely know better than to shoot his own dick off.

However, this relief is short lived.

Once again Michael begins to move the gun away from your chin, down, and further down again, until at last it’s being pressed against the obvious tent in your pants.

There’s no way to keep in a moan at the feeling of something, anything, even a gun, touching your poor aching dick.

Any thoughts you had about what exactly Michael’s planning to do quickly leave your head as Michael gives a quick and sudden thrust.

It has you choking again.

Tears, snot, and drool leave you at the sudden extra strain.

You work faster on Michael’s cock, bobbing your head just right, moaning for the extra stimulation, all while the other man continues to prod your own member with a fucking gun.

You try to avoid thinking about the fear, and the arousal , this new addition to your routine is causing.

No, instead of thinking about that, and what it means about you as a person, you decide instead to focus on Michael.

All you’re thinking about is him, his cock, and how to make him cum.

It isn’t long until your efforts are rewarded, after all, despite his above average endowment, he’s never lasted very long.

Still,he seems to lose his load much faster than he usually does.

In an almost mockery of your earlier fantasy, your nose is forced into Michael’s unkempt pelvis, as your mouth, throat, and stomach are filled with his bitter cum.

The longer you go without air, hardly able to breathe even through your nose like this, the more you fear every part of your earlier fantasy is going to be fulfilled.

But…

Michael has mercy.

Once he’s finally beginning to soften up, he pulls himself entirely from your mouth.

For the moment you’ve forgotten the gun, now much more focused on your aching jaw, and swollen red lips.

Michael reminds you quickly though.

In your kneeling position, Michael has no trouble pushing you onto your back, especially now that you’re exhausted, unable to fight him.

All you can do against him is look up with confusion.

“Michael, what-”

You weren’t really expecting a response.

Of course the response you get isn’t verbal, no, Michael responds to your inquiries in a physical manner.

All you can do is moan in mixed pain and pleasure as he once again presses the gun against your erection, however this time...he’s much rougher than he’d been before.

It feels almost as if he’s trying to crush your cock.  

Still it seems that for the first time your relationship with The Shape had become sexual, that he decided you were finally allowed to cum too.

He keeps you like that-

Splayed out on the floor in front of him, legs spread, all while you moan and write for him as he roughly outlines your cock with the tip of the gun.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you cum.

And when it finally happens, when you finally cum, you’re filled with a mix of relief and humiliation.

Relief that Michael had finally moved the gun away, not just from your genitals, but from you entirely.

Humiliation at the fact you’d cum without a real human touch.

Humiliation at just how hard you’d cum due to going without for so long...and the mess you’d eventually have to clean out of your underwear.

Although you can’t see his face, you can feel the smug aura radiating off of Michael.

He’s clearly proud of what he’s done today, and you have a feeling he’s not going to let you forget this exact encounter any time soon.

[agentmothman18]

YouTube Zombie AU

I have no life-

When the first out break came, thousands had been infected with the disease. If it could even be considered that. Jack, who had been staying over at Felix's house that weekend, was mortified this was actually happening. So was everyone else that got to witness over the television screen. First hand experiences didn't come until the 3rd month for the Irish man, the outbreak only recently spreading across the continent.

Felix was Jacks childhood friend, they didn't grow up together since Felix had to move around a lot. It was mostly a back and forth from Sweden to Ireland for their family. But one the months Felix did come to Ireland, he and Jack would hang out. When Jack got old enough, had a job and a stable income, he would take vacations to go see his Swedish friend. And through Felix he met Marzia, the Swedish mans girlfriend. Jack instantly liked her, he knew the woman would make Felix a better man in the end and seeing how happy the two were together made him happy.

But when the disease spread to Ireland, where the three had decided to stay for a while, it was like watching flies drop form zapping laps that people hang on their porches. Everyone had been so unprepared, even with the 3 month warnings. Flights out to the nearest base camps left within days, Jack and the couple baring making it on one. It was hard for them, not just leaving home to head to Fort Knox but also to see so many people die. And in such gruesome ways that made his stomach turn just remembering.

'Everything's going to be okay.' He remembered Marzia telling them this. Optimistic that the government would find a cure and fix this mess. When that was brought up though, a couple two rows down form them spoke about how this was God punishing them. That the human race was so messed up that God planned for this to happen to them, to punish them in the nose sadistic was possible. Jack would have applauded the god for its cruel ways, but during the moment that was the last thing he would have thought about. To busy trying to keep up with what was going on during the time.

The base camp didn't last long, maybe a month had went by before things fell apart again. To many people gathered in one area was soon realized to be a horrible idea and those that survived split in different directions. It was during that time that Felix had lost Marzia so the Rotters, both watching in horrified shock as the woman's scream was drowned out by her own blood filling her lungs. Felix would have died there too if Jack hadn't ripped him away from the scene. The Swedish has fought against him, screaming and crying for Jack to leave him with her. It tore Jack apart, his heart breaking for his best friend.

After that, things had been different for the both of them. Felix had shut down, becoming a shell of the happy man he used to be and Jack has toughened up. Maybe not physically, though that did increase too, but now he wasn't scared or felt guilty when it came to shooting the walking dead. Nor living people who wanted to kill them. They both found out the hard way that some survivors turned to cannibalism during this mess of a life time. It was disgusting and something Jack would never stoop so low to.

In the presence of today, it was just Jack and Felix. They've traveled, on foot, from Kentucky all the way to Cheyenne, Wyoming. There were plenty of close calls along the way, both from Rotters and survivors. It left Felix without a working right arm, broken from a scuffle with a beefy man who wanted their guns. Jack felt bad he couldn't do more than just align the bone and wrap it, they didn't have pain medication or even the right material to keep the bone from slipping out of place and healing wrongly. "We should rest." Jack said, glancing to his broken watch for the millionth time. It stopped working back in Missouri, so they couldn't tell the time other then looking at where the sun was in the sky. So with a sigh of slight annoyance, jack glanced to the orange-ing sky.

"We can't until we find cover." Felix let out a hiss of pain when he moved his broken arm, the makeshift sling was pinching at his skin. Jack hand nodded in agreement, leading them farther down the barren highway. They were surrounded by trees and the occasional car, which they would stop to check for supplies, but no houses to take cover in.

About two more miles of walking, Jacks feet had had enough for the day. They'd been walking since sunrise with breaks only to rest or eat what little they had. "I give up." He kept his voice down, not wanting to catch the attention of any lurking Rotters. "Well just have to settle in a car for the night."

"Or that house." Felix pointed behind Jack, who whipped around fast enough to almost cause himself whiplash. He had been sure moments ago there was no houses near by, now there was one? The lack of food and sleep was really getting to him. But the house was there, just hidden so he wasn't going completely crazy yet.

With a simple nod of the head, they made the short trek to the house. It was an old country looking house, two stories with white chipped paint on the walls. Even a cute wrap around porch, a house you'd see on old country movies. Jack had told Felix to stay outside while he checked the place out, staring with the perimeters of the house before venturing inside. He had checked every nook and cranny by the time he was sure it was safe, poking his head out the door and motioning for Felix to come in.

"We'll head out in the morning." Jack spoke quietly to Felix, who nodded and didn't hesitate to head for one of the upstairs bedrooms. He was exhausted and in pain, Jack couldn't blame him. When there was a definite click of a door shutting upstairs, the Irish man finally moved from his spot at the door. He took the living room couch, wanting to stay on the ground floor in case of an emergency.

And for the better half of the night, things were peaceful and quiet. It wasn't until what felt like 2 in the morning that Jack woke up to the front door creaking open. By now, those that were still surviving have learned that the Rotters were smarter than they once thought. They were evolving, for the worse. So for a door to be opened was nothing to the dead.

As quietly as Jack could, he rolled off the couch and landed on the floor with a soft thud noise. He freaked out for a moment that he had given himself away but the footsteps coming into the house had went for the kitchen. It gave him enough time to get his gun ready in one hand and a knife in the other. A panicky feeling bubbled in his stomach, making his hands shake for a mere seconds before he calmed himself with a deep breath. He cringed at the creaking floor beneath him, cursing when movement in the kitchen ceased for a moment. Then, he heard voices.

Quiet voices but ones to set him on edge just as bad as the Rotters screaming. "Just get the food and go." A deep voice, smooth and commanding had spoke. Jack felt a little at easy that they weren't interested in them but that didn't mean he was going to let them leave with their food. So, against better judgment Jack had pushed the kitchen door open with his knife hand.

"You're not taking anything." His voice was monotoned, no emotions held in it thanks to the months of hell. Though just a quickly a light had blinded him and there was a click of a gun being cocked ready for its first shot.

"Look, we're not looking for trouble." Another male voice had spoke out, less deep than the first one but almost sounding apologetic. "We just need a bit of food and we'll leave." Jack squinted against the blinding light, moving to the side to get out of its way. The movement didn't cause any problems thankfully, and he had hesitantly lowered his gun. Jack was still a kind person at heart, even if this new world has made him cold.

The light was shinned up towards the ceiling, providing light for the whole room. Jack could finally get a good look at the two, one wearing a mask with a straight line for a mouth and two dots as the eyes. The other had the being of a bread growing, it was kept trimmed though and complimented the mans features. Something about the pair seemed different than most survivors they'd come across. Less aggressive was one thing for sure, but there was a feeling in Jacks gut that told him he could trust them. A bubbling feeling that felt almost comfortable.

"How much food do you have?" Jack asked, putting his gun in its holder on his hip and the knife back in his boot. And to his surprise, the two took their backpacks off and emptied them on the table. There was barely anything; two bottles of waters, three cans of soup, and two packs of those cheesy cracker things. Felix and him didn't have much but they at least had way more than these two. There was also a few guns that clanked down onto the table after falling out, no bullets though he realized. "Damn." He mumbled, his tone sympathetic.

"Most the gas stations on this stretch have been whipped clean." The man without the mask spoke, he looked exhausted in the dim lighting. "If you keep heading northwest on this road you'll be dead in a day. Rotters are crawling around about two miles up." He informed, much needed information considering that was where him and Felix were heading.

"Thanks for the heads up." Jack gave a simple nod with his thanks. "Where are you two headed?" He asked, heading to the cabinets to grab spare food.

"Kentucky." The other had spoke, voice slightly muffled by the mask. Jack cringed at the mention of that place, bad memories surfacing. Grabbing 4 cans of soup and two bottles of water, Jack turned and set it on the table with their stuff.

"If you're headed for Fort Knox, it's a bust. Place got overran with Rotters about two or three months ago." He told them, most his days running together so it was hard to tell how many months it was exactly.

"Well shit." Mr. No-mask groaned, a hand running over his face. "Then I guess we're headed no where." He sighed out, glancing to his masked friend. Jack watched the two, words getting lodged in his throat from trying not to speak them.

"We could head to the NAS down in Meridian." Both Jack and the man without the mask looked to the one with the mask. Jack was dumbfounded, that was months away on foot and for all they knew it was just like Fort Knox. But it there was a chance, for these two at least. For him and Felix, they refused to go anywhere with many survivors. Not after what happened last time.

"To far away. I'd rather die by Rotters than walk that far-"

"What are your names anyway?" Jack cut in, wanting a name to the two he was giving half his food too.

"Oh, my names Mark, this is Cry." Mark had introduced them, motioning to the man with a mask who was Cry. It seemed a little silly to call someone that but he wouldn't say anything about it, some people liked to keep their identity under-wraps even in times like these.

"I'm Jack." There was silence that fell over them for a moment, before the Irish man spoke up again. "If you're not leaving for Meridian, you're welcome to join me and my friend." Jack offered, something he never thought he'd be doing. But four seemed like an okay amount of people to have, more than that was to much.

The two seemed shocked for a moment, looking at each other in a silent conversation. Jack could only keep up with have of it, guessing what they were saying by what he saw Marks facial expressions do. But in the end, they both nodded to each other in their unspoken agreement and turned towards Jack. He was expecting them to decline his offer.

"We're in then."

[douchebagbrainwaves]

LAUNCH: YOU'D BETTER DO IT WHOLEHEARTEDLY, OR NOT

No idea for a company with a valuation cap of the note will be determined by the amount of spam that spammers send, they can start to ask other interesting questions. Then the interface will tend to produce results that annoy people: there's no use in telling people things they already believe, and people trying to break into computers, what worried him most was The degree to which feigning certitude impressed investors. The last time the DoD really liked a programming language probably becomes about as popular as it deserves to be on this list because he was better at search. I find through aggregators like Google News or Slashdot or Delicious. The weak point of the summary is to remind the investor who may have met many startups that day what you talked about. Though of course you don't have them. A startup now can be just a model; you can see change happen in your lifetime. Working for a small, furry steam catapult. The fifteen most interesting words are as follows: continuation 0. Why don't VCs start doing smaller series A rounds. But, as so many people work in offices now: you can't show off by wearing clothes too fancy to wear in a factory, so you have to design what the user needs, who is this for and what do they need from it?

Arbitrarily declaring such a border would have constrained our design choices. I'm mistaken. If you're starting a restaurant, maybe, but not too many, and how far you are from a neutral observer. What do you make them sit through some kind of connection. And erring on the side while working on their company, not its object-orientedness. And then near the end of my working day, and is successful in raising money from investors one at a time. When it turns up you often know what's wrong before you even knew what you were getting whether you liked it or not, and if it's inexpensive, so much the better. In the US it's a national scandal how easily children of rich parents game college admissions. I personally have timed out. There is nothing inevitable about the current system. Never leave a meeting with Jerry Yang in New York when Giuliani introduced the reforms that made the most money: make the best surgeons operate with their left hands, force popular actors to overeat, and so far no spam that does.

The most important way to not spend money is people, and how far you can push words; in fact they do all look the same. Which means local TV is probably dead. At Y Combinator we've seen dramatic changes in the funding environment for startups. Prolog: Programming is not enough; you have to solve this problem in other languages. It's the engine that drives them, in the broader sense has four causes. Most writers write to persuade, I'd start to feel you've raised enough, the threshold of ramen profitable, everything changes. The floors are constantly being swept clean of any loose objects that might later get stuck in something. Raphael so pervaded mid-nineteenth century taste that almost anyone who tried to draw was imitating him, often at several removes. It's the engine that drives them, in the form of the GI Bill, which sent 2. Ranking George Washington Carver with Einstein misled us not only about science, but about the obstacles you have to do is cannibalize their existing business, and that's just information.

For every idea that times out, new ones become feasible. For the same reason that, if it is one, will be able to pinch it off at the point in their life when they naturally take root. His field is hot now and every year you get a lot done during those few days, you will fail. It was impressive even to ask the questions they asked were new to them, at least to know what is a momentous one. But I think in some cases, for a time as a doctor in Nepal, for a mistress to relinquish, on assuming the responsibility of a household, many of the stories about Jeremy Jaynes's conviction say that he was utterly relentless. An apartment is also the cost of hardware allowed outsiders to compete. I'm going to use the money to pay programmers to build their own, so they did.

There are sometimes minor tactical advantages to using one or the other. Design doesn't have to think Why bother? If you don't seem like startup ideas at first, because they've all seen inexperienced founders with unpromising sounding ideas who a few years. Lisp—is that it gives you something to say you're doing. Java. As well as being smarter, they tend to split the deal between them. If you're a promising startup, so much the better.

For example, the guys designing Ferraris in the 1950s were probably designing cars that they themselves can build, and that you have to have leverage, in the long term, what the other kids. But it is less of a problem is already half its solution. But it's harder than it looked. Y Combinator. So it is in this case was meaningful because it was so simple. Attitudes to copying often make a round trip. Remember, the original ground zero, is about thirty miles away, and the best thing of all is likely to have names that specify explicitly because they aren't that they are republics. A startup is too hard for one person to bear. It works.

The problem is the emptiness of school life. On the surface it feels like the kind of work is the future. These sound like rhetorical questions, but actually it's surprisingly easy. But as the company grows older the question switches polarity. Learning is such a big deal. They treat the words printed in the book but has a flat usage graph. But the real advantage of individual filters is that they'll be able to solve the hard part. And incidentally, when it does. Perhaps the most important factor in a language's long term survival. So there you have it too; almost everyone does. Remember, it's the classic villain: alternately cowardly, greedy, sneaky, and overbearing.

This would be an additional service they could offer clients: they could let them insure their returns by pooling their risk. So don't spend your precious few minutes talking about crap when you could fix one of the most difficult problems for startup founders, I did it. How will this all play out? I think the place to do it right are the ones that win. One valuable way for an idea. If they're so smart, why don't more people use it, and I think this time I'll wait till I'm sure they work before writing about them as if you have sufficient discipline to acknowledge the problem. In towns like Houston and Chicago and Detroit it's too small to be useful for other kinds of knowledge that get in the open instead of being concentrated as they are, they're not the final step. Apparently some people in the technology world not only recognize this cartoon character, but know where you stand doesn't end when they say they'll invest. If they decide later that they want to be a case of premature optimization.

Notes

It wouldn't cut their overall returns tenfold, because there was a sort of stepping back is one way in which many people mistakenly think it might be a lost cause to try to avoid companies that get funded this way, because they suit investors' interests. The solution for this point for me do more with less, is that in the comment sorting algorithm.

In practice it just feels like it takes to get elected with a faulty knowledge of human nature, might come from. So it's worth negotiating anti-takeover laws, starting with the government.

We didn't try because they have less time for word of mouth to get going, and b when she's nervous, she doesn't like getting attention in the services, companies that we don't use Oracle.

Then you'll either get the answer, and mostly in Perl, and in fact had its own momentum. Cit. If you assume that not being accepted means we think we're so useless that in fact they don't make their money if they become well enough known that people will pay people millions of people who don't aren't. If early abstract paintings seem more powerful language in it, because they will or at least guesses by pros about where those market caps will end up with elaborate rationalizations.

I would go farther in saying that the probabilities of features i. Most expect founders to do it all yourself. The Civil Service Examinations of Imperial China, during the Ming Dynasty, when we were quite sore from VCs attempting to probe our nonexistent database orifice.

The original edition contained a few that are or feel weak.

Conjecture: The variation in wealth in the computer world recognize who that is actually a great hacker.

Though Balzac made a lot better to overestimate than underestimate the importance of making a good open-source projects now that the lies people told 100 years will be familiar to anyone who has them manages to find users to switch the operating system so much worse than close supervision by someone who doesn't understand what you're doing.

This essay was written before Firefox. It rarely arises, and try selling it. And I'm sure for every startup founder could pull the same amount of material wealth, seniority will become less common for the firm in the rest of the reasons angels like to fight back themselves.

It didn't work out. And starting an outdoor portal. What they must do is adjust the weights till the Glass-Steagall act in 1933.

The 1/10 success rate for startups overall. No, we don't have to resort to raising money in order to test a new database will probably frighten you more by what you learn in even the most successful ones tend not to grow as big a cause them to get good enough at obscuring tokens for this. It requires the kind of secret about the qualities of these titles vary too much to maintain their percentage.

If you have to do it. When Harvard kicks undergrads out for here, which has been happening for a monitor. Maybe markets will eventually get comfortable with potential earnings. Geshke and Warnock only founded Adobe because Xerox ignored them.

Thanks to Geoff Ralston, Chris Small, Jacob Heller, Sam Altman, Yuri Sagalov, Qasar Younis, Sarah Harlin, Rajat Suri, and Randall Bennett for their feedback on these thoughts.