mortuarywriting

[mortuarywriting]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝… 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐩 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐬.

Remember the Primarch's Group-Me ask? Yeah.... a thing has been born.

Guilliman is the brother who always texts and responds in paragraphs. Always. His brothers can always determine his mood by the length of his messages and/or whether or not curse words are peppered in. The one who'll say in so many words to kiss his ass if they have a problem with the way he texts.

Dorn is the opposite. His texts will always be succinct and to the point.

Magnus is a close second in terms of length but that's usually because he's always asked to explain something. Also likes to post random facts of the day because his brothers could benefit from some daily knowledge. If you're Leman, however, there's always an insult or two to be posted.

And speaking of Leman, he and Alpharius are tied for being the brothers who are always instigating shit.

Lion is the brother who hardly, if ever, texts but is the one who will pull up if anyone talks shit about him.

Horus and Fulgrim compete with each other by posting their outfits of the day. It's really a competition to see who takes the best photos. Horus also posts memes of the NSFW variety.

Corvus and Jaghatai usually keep the chat on mute. Usually.

Which brings us to KONRAD. Konrad is the one who randomly posts pictures he's taken of his brothers out and about or doing something which always elicits some version of "Konrad, what the fuck?" Then he posted a picture of Corvus' murder of crows and that was the first time Corvus ever sent a text. It's been on sight ever since.

Sanguinius is the one who posts positive affirmations throughout the day. He's also the one who sends the "Mental health check! How are we doing/feeling today?" text.

Angron: 🖕 🖕 🖕

Vulkan is the one to send the good morning and good night texts. Also shares pictures with Ferrus over the latest things they've forged.

Mortarion's texts just drip with assholery... whenever he bothers to respond.

Lorgar usually posts an excerpt of whatever latest treatise he's writing and looks forward to his brothers' comments. The criticism he doesn't like is usually met with passive-aggressive snark. He can ask the most innocent question and it'll start a full-on war in the group chat lmao.

You can ALWAYS expect Perturabo to show his entire ass in the group chat. ALWAYS. Dorn lowkey likes to piss him off with one-word responses.

[mortuarywriting]

Lawyer Anon. The primarch in question, is to be honest, My evil side wants Curze, but for the sake of rationality, lets go with Horus. The sneario is essentially, you got hired by the ruling class family to essentially negotiatie the terms of joining the IMperium (the Tithe costs, the minerals and resources..) Like you managed to do such a fine job that you are offered (read: forced) to join the Crusade

𝐂𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 (𝐎𝐫 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐌𝐞𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐢𝐠-𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝)

This was supposed to be your finest moment, having studied under some of the brightest minds your planet had to offer.

You prided yourself on your cerebral and diplomatic nature, having parlayed that into your current career.

You also knew it was inevitable, the planet's absorption into the growing Imperium. You kept mum on your personal thoughts on it, even though you harbored your reservations. For the preservation of your planet, you suppose.

And so, you diligently went about your duties. You considered it an honor to be chosen as mediator, especially when your peers and the planet's ruling class expressed fears that the negotiations would be... contentious to say the least.

The time came to begin the proceedings and you met... him. Or rather, his barrel chest first. Your neck hurt the rest of the day. You'd heard rumors that the Imperium would send one of their leader's vaunted sons to spearhead the negotiation process but not the Warmaster himself. Oh, dear...

And if you weren't so keen on making a good impression in public, you might've shuddered at the way he smiled at you. It was welcoming. Too welcoming. Too... nice. You felt like small prey every time you met his gaze when he looked down at you. But of course, you did; he was twice your size, and that pelt around his shoulders did him no favors. That and having to crane your neck just to look at him in the eyes was more often irritating than not.

The proceedings took longer than was anticipated; it seemed there was no end to the greed that defined the planet's rulers (because why wouldn't they want to keep their way of living) and the Imperium remained resolute in the terms they offered. How wonderful.

Despite that, however, the Warmaster was incredibly amiable to you. Too amiable but you didn't want to risk the already tenuous relationship between the two groups. Risk of planetary extinction and all that.

The Warmaster—Horus, because he insisted that you call him such—took every available opportunity to pick your brain. Or to have a conversation. Or to just... spend time with you? If this was anyone else, you wouldn't have minded much but because the man is larger than life (literally and figuratively), you're... you're a little afraid.

And you have every reason to be because the man has, on multiple occasions, glared stared down would-be interlopers in your interactions. With a smile. With an incredibly tight smile. You were lucky enough not to see the mask almost completely slip but you did wonder why some kept their distance from you...

Horus has taken to just about monopolizing your thoughts on the matter. Of course, he disguises this as advice lest another one of the nobles attempts to sway negotiations in their favor but the reality is that he'd much rather be privy to that brilliant mind of yours than anyone else.

And let's not forget that you are almost always placed nearby him during these meetings. Yes, it's intentional. Yes, it was him, HORUS—

Your free time has also pretty much been spent with Horus, learning the ways of the Imperium, its history, its culture, the vast reaches of its empire, and, admittedly, it's intriguing. You didn't understand why Horus was absolutely pleased by your comment.

...Until you did. And (FINALLY) when you managed to negotiate the terms of your planet's integration into the Imperium (without bloodshed, might I add), Horus pulled the biggest ass-pull you've ever seen (but was it, though?).

"There is one other matter that must be settled." Horus' booming voice echoed throughout the chambers. Oh, what now?

What now indeed. The trepidation on everyone else's faces turned to shock when he reached down and grabbed you up. Just like that. No warning whatsoever. Oh, dear...

"That will be all," Horus said, a warm smile on his face but a warning in his eyes. There would be no room for dissent. Not for this. "Welcome to the Imperium..." He left no room for response as he made his exit with you in tow. Or, er, in his arms.

You did have to admit his chest felt rather nice to rest against, though. And that is how you met your big-tittied girlfriend.

[mortuarywriting]

So as I was writing and getting requests done, I had a thought: how about we take that trend I did with Call of Duty and apply it to your favorite primarchs? This begs the question: How would your dearly beloved primarchs react if you called them by their full name... because of reasons?

Horus - Hits you with one of his most dazzling smiles. It's too dazzling, which lets you know that Horus got into some shit. You question him and he gives you a vague answer while still smiling.

Leman Russ - You and he both know he's been up to no good so he'll either proposition you or make sure he's not in the vicinity to hear you call his name lmao.

Ferrus Manus - Instantly stops whatever it is he's doing; contemplates a response and ultimately decides to make himself scarce somewhere else.

Fulgrim - Is affronted that you'd call his name with such... irreverence. Will actually ignore you. Bastard.

Vulkan - Will also stop what he's doing and answer your call just as fervently as you called him. Has a tendency to resort to hugs to placate you. Those hugs are amazing, though... You can never stay mad at him for too long.

Rogal Dorn - Responds by calling you by your full name. With no intonation. Smart ass.

Roboute Guilliman - Will give some bullshit explanation while multi-tasking that would make Horus proud as to why he got into shit and how said shit has been resolved. May or may not work depending.

Magnus - It becomes a staring contest because you want him to give you an answer and he's trying to figure out why you called him.

Sanguinius - His foresight never prepares him for the way you say his name. Would put on his best saccharine smile that Horus would also be proud of but it's ineffective because his wings usually give him away.

Lion El'Jonson - Gives no fucks. Save for a quick glance will refuse to acknowledge your call. Because of reasons that have nothing to do with the fact that he's in deep shit.

Perturabo - Will pretty much stomp his way to you and get eye-level with you with a sneer. "Why do you call me?" A battle of wills and glares ensues.

Mortarion - Will look down on you, literally and figuratively.

Lorgar - Is the one who puts Horus and Sanguinius to shame because he ALWAYS placates you. ALWAYS. It never fails. But this is after he's winced and bowed his head some, even though he towers over you.

Jaghatai Khan - Gotta catch him first to find out lmao.

Konrad Curze - Results may vary. Might even hear some gremlin screeching... er, do you really wanna know?

Angron - Smirks and chuckles because he most certainly did some shit and he's practically begging you to say something about it.

Corvus Corax - May or may not be repentant, depending on the severity. Also may or may not make himself known but an effort was made, I suppose.

Alpharius - You're better off wondering what it is he didn't do. Whenever he comes, you're left wondering if that's the real Alpharius or if he sent a proxy like the last couple of times.

[mortuarywriting]

im back from errands, blacklist w40k because after lunch It's Time

Actually I'm gonna do a mass reblog of wh40 shit from lxvvie/wxnheart after I get back from errands, so in a few hours it's game over for y'all

[mortuarywriting]

The “oh I could definitely write this fanfic in under 5000 words and it really wouldn’t take me that long” voice in your head is actually the devil speaking

[mortuarywriting]

Actually I'm gonna do a mass reblog of wh40 shit from lxvvie/wxnheart after I get back from errands, so in a few hours it's game over for y'all

[mortuarywriting]

Amāre Divinitatus: "...His love endures forever."

He never worshipped for worship's sake.

There was always a reason, conviction at the forefront of his mind, and his many treatises, reverence made material, paled compared to the visions of splendor that blessed his mind.

Those visions of splendor... the many wonders of you...

Beautiful.

His worship, once of the Father, had shifted. His words, reverence made material, rejoiced in honor of these dreams. The love that filled his heart in the aftermath was all-consuming, powerful, and he wished, oh did he wish...

Ecstacy. His body hummed with it.

He did not know exactly when and did not know exactly where, but he knew his meeting with you was imminent. And as he prepared, so, too, did he worship. So, too, were his treatises filled with your praises, and he supposes a love like this would last forever.

When your paths finally crossed, those marvelous dreams did you no justice. You were divine, heaven-sent, and it brought him to his knees in supplication. He took your hands in his, bowed his head gracefully, and kissed them adoringly, agony and ecstasy piercing his heart.

He never worshipped for worship's sake, and here he was, entranced by the many wonders of you.

And his love would endure forever.

— Lorgar Aurelian.

[mortuarywriting]

something something going to the city, getting a fancy hotel, and doing a bar crawl with your best girls for the weekend, except at bar #2 you pick up followers. there's a table of four guys, all broad-shouldered military dudes, who buy you a few drinks, shoot the shit, and generally are a good hang. there's two johns (one of them just goes by 'soap'), kyle, and... the other one. he doesn't offer his name, doesn't really speak, just sits with his arms crossed over his chest next to a bourbon he doesn't touch. if the rest of his friends weren't so damn charming and companionable, there's no way you or any of your girlfriends would go anywhere near him.

when your group is ready to move to the next bar, soap suggests following along, expanding your group and making it a real party. it's a good time, all told. the guys have some fascinating stories, pay for the occasional rounds of drinks, and aren't bad on the eyes, either.

as the night wears on and the tabs rack up, members of your newly-extended group start slinking off into the night together. soap's the first to disappear with your best friend since childhood, and then the other john leaves half an hour later with your cousin. when you come back from the bar with a fresh pitcher of beer, you see the nameless man in the mask sitting alone at your table right as kyle leaves out the front door with two of your friends in tow, one on each arm.

"oh." is all you can think to say as you set the pitcher down. dark eyes impassively stare at you from under a hoodie as you sit down next to him, feeling more than just a little bit embarrassed. you're the odd one out, the fat friend left out in the cold while the rest of the group hooks up with stone-cold hotties. you push the pitcher towards the masked soldier.

"you can have that, i think i'm just gonna go back to the hotel-"

"you'll be locked out of your room for a while, i'm pretty sure that's where your friends are takin' kyle." the man says, nodding towards the door. ah. yeah, he's got a point- the only thing worse than being left at a bar by your friends is being made to sit in a hotel hallway, listening to the sounds of a threesome while you wait for them to finish so you can brush your teeth, take a shower, and call it a night.

"guess we're the leftovers." you joke awkwardly, pouring yourself a glass of beer.

"no." says the masked man, right before he stretches out his arm across the back of your chair. you blink at him, dumbfounded.

"oh, i'm sorry, i didn't mean to imply-" you blurt out, trying to make amends for your thoughtless insult. a single gloved finger is briefly pressed against your lips, cutting you off and shutting you up before he retracts it.

"what i mean is- you aren't a leftover, i called dibs at the first bar. you were reserved." he says, leaning in so close that you're certain if he was unmasked you'd feel his breath on your face. "now you just finish up 'ere, i'll pay the tab, and then we'll go to mine so i can finally find out if you taste as good as you look."

he gets up without another word, and you'd have had no idea your mouth is hanging wide open in shock if not for the way he shuts it for you with another press of his finger and a low, rumbling chuckle before he leaves to pay the bill and fulfill his promises.

[mortuarywriting]

Mutuals every time we’re all online this is what we’re doing

[mortuarywriting]

Let's Riot!

When the Reader St arena gets bought out from under them by Morgan’s vengeful ex, Pippa Graves, The Reader St Riots suddenly find themselves without a practice space. Pippa may say she’ll play nice, but Morgan knows that she’ll either have to get back under Pippa’s manicured thumb or the whole team will be out on their ass in no time. Problem is, the only other practice space around that’s not booked up to the tits belongs to Jo Price, captain of the Femme41, and well… Morgan has a bit of ugly history with her too.

Still, Jo’s at least a little more reasonable than Pippa, and Morgan may hate to beg, but she’d hate to see the Riots disbanded more. And well, maybe there’s room for a little cooperation, especially when their teams get along so well.

Contains: Lesbians! Almost everyone is a woman (Alex is NB and there are like. A few men mentioned.) and most of them are gay, OCs: Readers and OCs from a bunch of my projects and also Bambi and Bricks who belong to the esteemed @dragonnarrative-writes , Roller Derby!, complicated dating histories, this is just a fun little palette cleanser because I got sad working on one of my other projects lmao, alcohol consumption, cannabis consumption

~3k - 18+ MDNI

“Frank, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”

“Come on, sweetheart, calm down—”

“I am calm!” Morgan snapped.

Chelsea quickly put an arm in front of Morgan and dragged her back a step. Calling Morgan sweetheart was a great shortcut to her blowing her top. “You are definitely not calm.” She looked back at Frank. He stood between them and the doors to the arena, a short, balding man that looked a bit sweaty and nervous in the low light. “You couldn’t give us any notice?”

“Look, I’ll return your deposits for the month—”

“That’s not the issue!” Morgan's brown eyes flashed with fury, her jaw tight, like she wanted to bite the man, which would be distinctly unhelpful.

Chelsea dragged her back another step. “It is a little the issue. What happened? We’ve never had any trouble, we’ve always paid on time, there’s no reason why you’d drop us like this.”

“New owners,” he said weakly. “I’m sorry, they cancelled everyone. You were just at the bottom of the call list, and you got here before I could.”

“New owners! Since when was it for sale?”

“Hell if I know. They don’t tell me shit either. All I know is that Gerry came in here with some blond bi—" He thought twice about his wording, giving Morgan another nervous glance. "--Woman and she’s the boss now.”

Morgan walked in a tight circle, looking up at the sky, hands on her hips. This wasn’t happening. It didn’t have to be her. Maybe it was some other blond woman with money to burn. “Fuck.”

The doors behind Frank opened. “Oh, hey sugar,” a too-familiar voice rang out, southern accent distinctive. “Fancy meetin' you here.”

Morgan turned around sharply. “Pippa.”

Chelsea groaned. “Oh here we go.”

“Go back to your office, Frank. I think I’ve got this from here.” Phillipa Graves patted Frank on the shoulder and walked past him. “Morgan, I’ve missed you. You never return my calls anymore.”

“Is that what this is about?” Morgan shifted her grip on her bag, glancing toward the parking lot. Bricks and Doll were lingering at the edge, talking to each other and looking back with worried expressions. They knew the history between Morgan and Pippa well enough to be wary of what might happen next. “You’re gonna steal our practice space because I won’t call you back?”

“Aw, honey, don’t be like that. We’re all big girls. I figure we can learn to share. Why don’t you join us tonight? And early next week we can grab dinner and make a new schedule. I’m sure there’s a way to make sure we’re all… satisfied.” Pippa twisted one of Morgan’s curls around her finger, leaning in close. Even ready for practice, she looked perfect as always, more like she was about to model for a roller skate advertisement than actually practice. Sleek blonde hair swept back in a low braid, a tight pink tank top, leggings that clung to her thighs, pads on, skates off, preparation interrupted by all the fuss she was certainly expecting.

“I’m the one that does the scheduling, usually,” Chelsea interjected. “Maybe it’s us that should get dinner.”

“If you like,” Pippa said smoothly, barely sparing Chelsea a glance. “The more the merrier, of course. Though I do have some personal business to talk over with Morgan too. Suppose it can wait.” She tapped Morgan under the chin with her first knuckle. “Come on, sugar, practice with us. We’re not so bad. And you’re all already here, ain’t you?”

“We’ll have to talk it over.”

“Course. Y’all come on in when you’re done talkin’.” Pippa winked at Morgan and sauntered back inside.

Chelsea sighed, elbowing Morgan as they walked over to the others. The rest of the team had gathered around Bricks, her height marked among the group of shorter women. “You’re gonna have to sleep with her.”

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I’d really rather not.”

“She’s not going to be reasonable,” Billie pointed out. “She’s pure evil. She’s the head of the PTA at Ellie’s school, and she runs that shit like the navy. She’s gonna bend us over a barrel to get what she wants.”

“Have you ever tried not having antagonistic relationships with your exes?” Bricks asked. “Because that’s what I do, and no one has bought a whole arena just to fuck with me.”

“Yet,” Doll said reassuringly. “It could still happen.”

“The whole team is awful,” Bambi said. “One of them works in my office, and she’s a real— Well, I don’t like her.”

“Harsh words, DB.” Bricks propped her hands on her hips. “We can suck it up for one night, a free practice is a free practice. And if you have to flutter your eyelashes at her the whole time, you’re gonna do it.” She pointed at Morgan accusingly. “This is your fault.”

“It is not!”

“It is,” Chelsea said solemnly, fixing her pink bun from on top of her head to low on the nape of her neck to fit under her helmet. “Pussy game is clearly too strong. Maybe try being a worse fuck.”

“She can’t.” Bricks gently turned Morgan around so that she was facing the doors, and nudged her forward a step. “She doesn’t know how.”

Chelsea turned fully toward the others, walking backward. “Alright, drills only, we’re not going to let them goad us into a scrimmage, they’re gonna play dirty as hell with no refs, and we can’t afford an injury this close to a game. Keep it loose, and if anyone hassles you, come to me, or come to Bricks. Do not tell Morgan or she’s gonna punch someone and we’re gonna lose our space for good.”

“I’m not!”

Bricks laughed and caught Chelsea’s arm, spinning her before she hit the edge of the door. “Yes you are, Morgan. Stay on your best behaviour. Maybe even try being charming.”

Bunny nudged Dancer, grinning. “If you’d joined up last year, like I told you to, you could have been here for the whole explosion. It was great.”

“Great?” Billie asked, raising her eyebrows. “Were we watching the same breakup?”

Bricks glanced over her shoulder warningly. “Save it for drinks, ladies, or Morgan’s gonna make us skate line drills till we drop.”

They dropped their bags along the benches and geared up, watching the Shadows zip around the track. The Shadows were mean, not just on the track, but off too, in that sugar sweet way that left you wondering if you were just reading into it. They were a pretty well-rounded team, and coordinated, thanks to Pippa. She did nothing in half-measures. It seemed impossible that she’d be able to raise children, run school events, coach a junior team as well as an adult one, somehow have a job on top, and still have time to run around keeping two relationships secret from each other for nearly eight months, but Pippa was the kind of woman who really could have it all.

The Riots were… A good team. Pippa had poached two of their players during the breakup drama, and Pepper had moved back home to take care of her grandmother, and they were still trying to get back to where they had been a year ago. Kitten Caboodle and Break Dancer were pretty solid for fresh meat, but with a small team and only four of them with more than a few years experience, it was rough going out there. Hard not to get demoralized when Kortac had beaten them 240 to 60 during their last game. No one’s fault really— Bunny and Sweetpea had been out sick and neither Kitty or Dancer were prepared to jam more than a few rounds with players that rough. They’d gotten shaken, so Morgan and Billie had done most of the jams. Nobody and Freddie Kruger had just torn right through their weakened pack while Morgan and Bill tried to wrestle their way past Queenie.

Once Dancer and Kitty got more confident, they’d be hard to catch. Kitty was tiny, and Dancer was agile, but they both needed more time. Doll and Bambi, who had joined a little over a year ago had turned out to be a highly effective set of blockers— Small, but sturdy and hard to knock down. When they were out on the track with Bricks or Chelsea, they were nigh impossible to get past, which would leave their fourth blocker free to assist the jammer, in an ideal world.

The ideal world simply had five more players in it. Maybe more, since no one but Morgan and Bricks made it to every game.

Later on, worn out and sweaty from practice, crammed into the biggest booth at a diner that was roughly equidistant between everyone’s homes and the arena (and the young man that worked the fryers had a massive crush on Sweetpea, which meant everyone got more fries), they debriefed.

“That’s gonna be tricky for me to stomach long term,” Morgan admitted. “I’m gonna sleep with Pip if I have to be too nice.”

“You don’t actually have to sleep with her, you know,” Bricks said.

“No… I’m gonna.”

“We can find somewhere else,” Billie suggested. “I don’t want Morgan and Pip to get back together, it was so annoying when they were. All in favour of Morgan not fucking Pippa, say aye.” She raised her hand to note the measure.

“Aye,” they intoned together, all raising their hands as well.

“Simone says the Femme41 practice out of Jo’s warehouse now. Pippa did the same thing to them eight months ago. I bet they’d let us skate there.” Bricks tossed another fry into her mouth. “If someone behaves herself.”

Morgan scoffed. “It’s impossible for me to date another one of her girlfriends, her relationships hardly last the weekends now.”

Bunny mouthed the word Pippa at Kitty and Dancer.

“Then you won’t have a problem asking her,” Chelsea said. “Maybe bake her something nice as an overture. A pie or something. You make good pies.”

Morgan winced. “We have a game against them this weekend. We could ask her all together.”

Billie shook her head. “No, this one’s on you. Captain to captain conversation. You have Chelsea’s schedule key, you can negotiate for a time that works.”

“And if she says no? She hates my guts.”

“Wear something low cut and bake her a pie,” Bricks suggested. “Maybe just go wearing nothing but an apron.”

“I’ve got one that says Born To Be A Lesbian Housewife,” Doll said. “You can borrow it. It’s very frilly.”

Bambi giggled. “I’ve got one that says Vagitarian.”

Doll laughed too, knocking her head against Bambi’s shoulder. “That’s way better, Morgan, borrow that one.”

"I'm not going to-- Did you people hear me when I said she hates my guts?"

"She still has eyes, Morgan," Bricks said. "And you have nice tits."

"If you don't sort this out, we might have to disband to other teams. And I don't want to. I like you guys." Chelsea looped an arm around Kitty. "We started this team because we wanted to get together and have fun and challenge ourselves without it getting so damn competitive or mean. Bill and I are not going back to the Shadows, and there's no way Bricks wants to go back to Kortac. So put on your big girl panties and a cute dress, and charm Jo into sharing the warehouse with us. Got it?"

"Got it." Morgan sank back into her seat with a groan. I'll talk to her after work tomorrow."

"Good," Billie said, a note of finality in her voice. "Now, did anyone else watch Game of Dragons last night? I have opinions."

By the time Morgan got home, walked Laika, showered, ate cold leftovers out of the fridge and stepped out on her balcony with a joint, it was well past dark, and she was bone tired. Jo was out on her own balcony, feet up, smoking a cigar. She was a thick, barrel chested woman, wearing a tank top and jeans, cigar in one hand, glass of whiskey in the other. Her hair was longer than usual, tucked behind her ears, like she'd been growing it out. It had been a while since Morgan saw her without a hat on.

They acknowledged each other with a curt nod, and Morgan settled into her swing chair, tucking her feet up underneath her. Laika went to the railing to give Jo the biggest, saddest eyes she could.

Jo maybe didn't like Morgan much, but it was hard not to like Laika. The big goofy rottweiler loved almost everyone, and knew exactly how to get what she wanted (big sad eyes, a few pathetic whines, a raised paw, if need be). It was only a minute before Jo was up and leaning over the railing to give Laika a pet.

Usually they didn't speak. The smallest things seemed to spark up into fights between them, and Morgan found it was easier just to keep their interactions to a minimum.

So it was a surprise when Jo spoke first. "Rough night?"

"Yeah. You could say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

“Thank you for pretending to care, but not really.” She grimaced. It really was the perfect opportunity to ask, but it was hard to shake the habit of brushing Jo off.

Jo snorted. “You know, I really preferred fightin’ to this cold shoulder treatment.”

“That’s because you’re a disagreeable sort of woman.”

“That’s the spirit, pet. But you can do better than that. C’mere.”

Morgan glared at her. “No. I’m good where I am actually.” She looked the other way, puffing on the joint. She could ask tomorrow. She wasn’t in a mood to deal with anyone else tonight. Having to smile and play nice with Pippa had been bad enough. She needed a good sleep before she could even pretend to be friendly to anyone else.

She startled when Jo’s thick fingers plucked the joint out of her hand. “Hey! I didn’t invite you over here.”

“Your weed’s better than mine.”

“Probably because I grow it myself. What do you want?”

Jo sat down on the solid little coffee table in front of Morgan, holding her cigar and whiskey glass in one hand. She leaned forward, glass resting lightly on her knee, bleeding condensation into the denim. Mixed drink, then, not straight whiskey. Jo drank the better stuff neat. “Pip called me today.”

“Oh yeah?”

Jo hummed, offering the joint back, blue eyes stern. “Don’t be coy, if you’re fuckin’ her again I’d rather know than get blindsided bumpin’ into her in the hallway.”

“Did she tell you we were?”

Jo’s jaw clenched tight. “She said she was lookin’ forward to seein’ you tonight.”

“Well I’m sure it was super nice for her. She bought my team’s arena. I am gonna have to start fucking her if I want to keep our usual practice slots. She made that… Well about as clear as she ever makes anything.” Morgan handed the joint over again. “So not very, but I still got the gist of it.” She scrunched up Laika’s ears, humming. Laika’s tail solidly thumped against Jo’s shin, bridging the space between them.

“Extortionist,” Jo scoffed.

“Yeah. Pretty much. Bricks said you might take pity on us if I asked nicely. I know you practice out of your warehouse.” Morgan lifted her eyes back up to Jo’s face.

“Is this you askin’ nicely?” Jo leaned forward slightly, her soft stomach spilling over her belt a bit, biceps flexing as she leaned more weight on her arms. “You can do better than that. Not so much as a please.”

“It was not me asking nicely. I had no intention of talking to you until tomorrow, and I’m still not asking until I’ve had at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

“Surprised you’d come to me.”

Morgan looked away first, just like she always did. Jo had an intensity to her that was hard to match, blue eyes drilling into her own like she was looking for faults she could use to crack her open entirely. It was much easier to study the freckles on the top of her shoulder, just above the pinup girl sitting on the curve of a crescent moon that looked rather a lot like her ex wife, Sadie. “I wouldn’t if I had literally any other option. But I have to admit that you are slightly more tolerable than Pippa. Even if you do park half in my spot and fuck squealing college girls at all hours of the night.”

“You don’t need the space. You have a bike.”

“So that gives you the right to park your big-dick pickup truck wherever you please?”

“Sure does, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart! We have one conversation that doesn’t make me want to punch you, and you have to ruin it.”

She grinned, shifting back again. “Not being very nice to someone you want to ask a favour from.”

“I’m not asking the favour until tomorrow. I’m too grumpy to be nice tonight. You invited yourself over and plopped yourself down in front of me and started smoking my weed.” This was not helpful. Why did Jo always manage to get her this worked up? She drew in a centring breath. “No, you’re right, I should be nicer.”

"I did bogart your joint," Jo conceded. "That's on me." Rather than hand it back, she took a long drag, the cherry burning bright all the way down to the folded cardboard filter, and dropped the remains in the ashtray. She leaned forward again, cupping the back of Morgan's neck with a strong hand, and blew smoke directly into Morgan's face. She grinned wickedly when Morgan spluttered a bit. "What's wrong, pet? Thought you wanted me to share better."

"Maybe I am better off negotiating with Pippa," Morgan grumbled, swatting Jo's hand away.

"Hm. Maybe. Why don't you think about how you'll ask me about practice space tomorrow, and I'll get out of your hair." Jo stood up, gave Laika another pat, and climbed back over to her side of the balcony without another word.

Morgan ushered Laika inside, fuming again, and furiously got ready for bed.

She was sure of one thing; Jo Price was going to make a truce between them nigh impossible.

Title card made on Canva - Image Credits: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 (Stickers are Canva assets) Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[mortuarywriting]

have some transmasc reader with the 141 silliness that just popped into my head.

tags/tw: transmasc reader has a backstory, attempts at humour, discussions of the english school system, brief mentions of classism, "cunt" used as a term of endearment.

unedited and written straight into the drafts as per usual.

790ish words of platonic silliness.

you can't remember how the conversation started exactly, it seems that one minute they're all chatting about the football scores (dull, but you make all the right noises in the right places) and then the next they're talking about their experiences at school.

you share a fondly exasperated look with gaz when soap explains his long list of lunch time and after school detentions (how he got away with making that many beakers explode in a chemistry lab you'll never know), you wince when ghost curtly informs soap that he was "too thick" for school (patently untrue from the way you've seen him demolish a crossword), you elbow soap in the ribs when he starts getting carried away taking the piss out of price's a-level in english literature (even if you did grin at the thought of him slogging his way through twelfth night).

and then gaz turns to you.

"come on then, mate. what was school like for you?" he grins, still enjoying the buzz of hearing price recite the famous quote about a man's "greatness".

"it was alright. just school, y'know?" you shrug carelessly feeling relaxed and comfortable.

"aye, but what was it like? we ken yer the only bastard here who had private school education." soap chips in, purposefully making his voice posh and plummy on the last three words.

"shut up, you knob. it wasn't like that." you scoff and elbow soap again, "and i'm not the only bastard here with private school education! gaz went to, fucking what'sitcalled, st paul's!"

"fide et literis." price intones gravely.

there's a pause where everyone looks at price with varying levels of surprise until ghost snorts a laugh.

"pretty sure my school's motto was 'stay out of prison you shit'eads'."

you all laugh boisterously and you spot ghost's eyes crinkle at the corners as his own mouth pulls into a grin behind his mask. you sigh happily and make yourself more comfortable by butting up against soap's arm. you let your mind drift a little until gaz interrupts your thoughts.

"go on then, what school did you go to?"

"hmm?" you blink tiredly, "oh, uh, st helen's and st katharine's."

gaz whistles lowly, impressed.

"bit posh that, mate."

you cringe, suddenly embarrassed, and your ears burn up with mortification.

"i got a scholarship, alright?" you mutter, as if that justifies the inherent classism of your education. ghost kicks your ankle and you shoot him a weak smile even as your face feels like it's bursting into flame.

soap makes a confused sound and looks between his phone and your face.

"are ye sure you've got the name of yer school right?" he asks.

"yeah?" you look at him quizzically as his eyebrows draw together forming a crease. you shoot a look at price who holds his hands up in the universal "don't fucking ask me" gesture in response.

"yer positive?" soap questions again sounding baffled.

"...yeah?" you say slowly, feeling just as confused at soap's questions.

there's a pause while soap scrolls through his phone.

"but, it's a girl's school?"

you blink. you blink again. what the hell is he confused about? you look over at ghost who has gone stock still before his shoulders start jerking up and down with silent laughter. you turn to gaz who looks confused before his face clears and his mouth splits into a wide grin.

"how can ye have gone tae a girl's school if yer a boy - a man?"

price groans and hides his face into his hands at soap's question and mutters something about soap being "a proper fucking muppet" to himself. ghost wheezes out a surprisingly breathy laugh.

you blink for a third time before tilting your head back and howling with uncontrollable laughter. your ribs ache and tears collect in the corner of your eyes.

"soap -" you snort, still giggling madly when you go to speak, "did y- did you forget -" you stop to heave in a breath to calm yourself "did you forget i'm trans... again?" you finish, tears streaking their way down your hot face.

soap's face is nearly crimson over his stubble when you turn to face him again, clearly embarrassed as gaz hollers.

"he did! he fucking did! oh my god!"

"how the fuck can you f'get summat like that?" ghost manages to wheeze out before breaking out into laughter again.

"you silly cunt." you say warmly, deeply pleased by the accidental affirmation as you knock your shoulder into soap's affectionately.

soap offers you a lopsided grin in response even as gaz and ghost continue to laugh and price groans.

"i can't believe i know you pricks."

and for some reason that makes you break out into laughter all over again, but this time soap's braying laugh joins in.

[mortuarywriting]

Into Your Veins- Part XII

Ao3 Masterlist

cw: stabbing zombies to death, brief mentions of self harm, angst

It took an apocalypse for Ghost to finally feel like his life (or afterlife, he supposes) is going well. He's respected in the community he lives in, he's well-fed, and if he's honest with himself, he's significantly less lonely than he used to be. It's all Brekkie's doing- most of the civilians on base steered clear of him before he had such a charming girl by his side. They still do, truth be told, but at least now they'll give him a little hello and ask how his pair is faring as she establishes herself on base. It's nice, really. Feels about as domestic as he think he'll ever get, coming back to the apartment and giving his pair all the well-wishes he's gathered from the neighbors as she cooks up something for her and Price to split while Ghost patiently waits for his own meal to throw him bedroom eyes to signal she's ready. It's all so much more than he ever had while he was alive, and he's determined to keep a tight grip on everything good he's been handed, lest it slip through his fingers and entirely out of grasp again.

The Captain is, of course, far too chuffed about the changes Ghost is experiencing. Every day he drops some sort of comment abut how being paired looks good on him, how much more relaxed Ghost looks, how glad he is that he won't have to feel his teeth anymore. The old man also loves to sing the praises of Breakfast's cooking, telling anyone who will listen how much he enjoys finally sharing an apartment with someone who knows how to use the spices in their cabinets. Every night he leans back in his seat at the dinner table, thanking Brekkie profusely as he pats his softening stomach and teases Ghost for not being able to enjoy all of his lovely pair's talents. Ghost wants to tell him that he enjoys plenty of her talents, a couple times a day, in fact, but keeps his mouth shut out of respect for the pretty soft girl that warms his bed and fills his belly with blood.

Days around the base feel less hectic with her around. Even when she's not by his side, all of his tasks are done with the thoughts of how nice it will be to be by her side again when he's finished. He's never really had anything to look forward to before, so the idea of wanting to go home is new to him. Novel. Uncharted territory. He'd never fully understood the phrase 'home sweet home' before she'd moved in, but now he feels it in the blackened marrow of his bones. He looks at her face and thinks 'home'. He holds her as she sleeps and thinks 'home'. He listens to her giggling at his bad jokes as they lie in the dark together and thinks 'home'.

Today they're on a run for charcoal and sand together, sent by Price to raid the home and garden center and fill up the truckbed with as many bags as possible. It's a solid plan, one that Brekkie came up with herself- they need a filtration system for the water they've been gathering from the nearby creek. Step one is to boil, step two is to filter, and the rest of the steps involve bottling, storing, and distributing equally amongst the people living on base. It's more of a system than they'd had in the past- a sort of free-for-all where people were expected to make their water potable as they saw fit. Ghost couldn't help but beam with pride as she detailed her plan to Price, complete with hand-drawn schematics for the filtration system and maps of where she thought they could acquire the necessary parts and plastic bottles for storage. She was so excited to have her plans approved immediately, and her joy and pride at the trust she's been given kept Ghost smiling to himself under his mask for the rest of the day as she flitted about getting everything ready for today's excursion out to get supplies.

It's the makings of a decent day, with one major hitch- Nikto's volunteered to come along and help.

There's something not right about Nikto, and Ghost is determined to find out what it is. It's been several weeks now that they've been in camp, getting into the groove of things, and still Ghost can't shake the idea that he's somehow brought a threat into their base. Sure, Nikto hasn't said or done anything egregious (aside from bringing back a fucking hyena, of all things), but there's still something not right. Brekkie seems to like him well enough, but it's just not enough to convince Ghost that there's nothing to be worried about.

The three of them are piled into the pickup truck, speeding down an empty highway as Breakfast fiddles with the radio, as she always does, searching for a signal. It's cute that she still tries, really. Ghost gave up on that kind of optimism months ago, if he's honest. Searching for a signal seems entirely futile to him, but he doesn't have it in him to break her spirit by saying so, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets her harmlessly fill the truck with the sounds of whirring, crackling static. His eyes flick up to the rear view mirror, and what he sees makes him grip the steering wheel just a bit harder.

Nikto is crammed into the tiny backseat, knees to his chest, staring at Breakfast's profile with a tilted head and soft, adoring eyes. Ghost is mostly certain he won't try anything with Breakfast, but still. It's the principle of the thing- you don't make goo-goo eyes at another man's pair, full stop. Nikto should know that better than anyone, Ghost reasons, so it's even more insulting that he's doing it.

"What will you do if you hear something on the radio?" Nikto asks from the backseat, his innocent question damn near making Ghost roll his eyes in annoyance.

"I dunno. Listen, I guess? I imagine if someone gets the ability to broadcast they'll have instructions or something." Breakfast's shoulders hunch, and immediately Ghost knows she's feeling foolish about the whole thing. That Russian prick, if it wouldn't upset Brekkie he'd drain the bastard right here and now.

"We should try to send a signal ourselves." Ghost says in lieu of cursing out his backseat passenger. "We could be the first to reach out, maybe give coordinates to a neutral meeting spot so we can safely bring people back to base."

"Neutral meeting spot?" Breakfast asks, sweet thing that she is.

"We do not want to just give out our location to just anyone. Zakhaev is still out there, I am sure he would love nothing more than to raid our base." Nikto chimes in from the back seat. "I believe Finn knows a thing or two about radios. I will ask them about what parts will be needed to build a radio tower when we return."

"You just keep checkin' the airwaves, Brekkie. We can't be the only people to have this idea." Ghost says, ignoring Nikto and patting Breakfast's big, soft thigh. If it was just the two of them, he'd dig his fingers into her inner thigh and talk dirty to her until she begs for a bite and a fuck. Bloody Nikto, ruining everything about his day, just like Ghost thought he might.

The rest of the drive passes in companionable silence as Breakfast finishes her back and forth across the AM and FM frequencies. Ghost keeps an eye out for signs of wildlife, but none can be found. He suspects that in the spring they'll have more rabbits and pheasants running around again, once the freaks have all rotted over the winter and stopped consuming everything in their path like decaying, shambling locusts. With any luck, the cold weather will make them slower and more brittle. Might be a good time to actively hunt them down and try to eradicate them. With any luck, even the deer population might come back in the next spring and summer.

The home and garden center looks a mess when they roll up to it. Windows broken, doors hanging lopsided in the frame, trash and abandoned cars everywhere. Even through the big front windows, the inside looks equally perilous- it looks exceedingly dark in there, with shelves that have been pushed over, their contents littered everywhere.

"I will do a perimeter check, just to be safe. Wait for me before you go in." Nikto says, hopping out of the backseat, making a show of stretching out his legs, and Ghost smirks. Must've been bloody uncomfortable, being folded in half like that in that tiny backseat. Good.

"We probably should have brought Sputnik for this, huh?" Breakfast asks, sounding more nervous than Ghost's heard her in a while.

"She was occupied when we left. Penny and some others borrowed her for a trip to the river." Nikto says simply, sliding a loaded magazine into his gun. "It will be fine, we are more than capable."

"Too right." Ghost says, patting Breakfast's shoulder, trying to make sure he's included in Nikto's 'we'.

“Yeah, OK, I know, I just... yeah. Let's just get this over with.” Breakfast says, picking at her nails. A nervous habit she's picked up lately, probably from Penny. That girl's cuticles are always bloody and raw.

“If it will help ease your fears, I will go ahead. Do not worry, Miss Breakfast. We will not let anything happen to you.” Nikto assures her with an uncharacteristic acknowledgment of Ghost. Finally. He gingerly moves across the blacktop to the overgrown grass that surrounds the building, leaving Ghost alone with his pair.

"What's got you so nervous? I know you've run supply missions alone before." Ghost inquires, cocking his head. "I- yeah. I just. I can't believe I didn't think about a neutral meeting spot. I think maybe living at the base is making me, like. I dunno. Soft." The words trip out of her mouth, clumsy and tinged with her own embarrassment. Ghost snorts and pokes a finger into the fat of her hip.

"You were soft when I found ya, Brekkie." He teases, and she snorts and swats his hand away.

"Oh, fuck off you menace." She laughs, hand covering her mouth as she tries to stifle the sound. A precautionary habit borne of having seen too many freaks drawn to sounds. One day, she'll be able to laugh as brightly and loudly as she wants, and Ghost looks forward to hearing it.

“You know, it's too bad Nikto's on this run with us. Would've liked to have the opportunity to chase you around a bit, just like old times.” Ghost teases, and Breakfast playfully smacks him with the back of her hand to his chest, not even remotely hard enough to hurt.

“Oh my god, why are you like this?” She laughs, and it makes Ghost grin wide under his mask.

“Not hearin' much of an argument from you, love. What do you say sometime you and me come out to the middle of nowhere so I can hunt you down and fuck you hard against a tree?” Ghost asks, moving into her space to speak lowly into her ear.

“Not today.” Breakfast says with a laugh in her voice, gently running a hand over his shoulder and biting her lip.

“That's not a 'no'.” He points out, and she smirks at him playfully.

“You're right. It's not.” She pats him on the shoulder with a wink. “Come on, let's get inside. Sooner we get this done with, the sooner we can go home and discuss your dastardly plans for me.”

“Dastardly?!” He laughs, following behind, his laughter getting louder when she turns back to wink over her shoulder at him. These last few weeks have been good, getting to know her without the imminent, constant threat of death hanging over them. She's somehow even more when she's not fighting for her life- more fun, more lovely, more lively, more affectionate. Never in his life did Ghost think he'd pair with someone who lovingly cards her fingers in his hair while he drinks her blood. She's one in a million, and he's not likely to take that for granted anytime soon. Whatever it takes to keep her safe, he'll do it, no questions asked.

Sooner than Ghost would have liked, Nikto trots back to Breakfast's side, reporting an all-clear.

“That's not to say there is nothing inside, however. I recommend caution.” He says, and Ghost bites the inside of his cheek to keep from calling him Captain Obvious and commenting on how Nikto tends to speak directly to Breakfast, not to the two of them.

“Noted.” Ghost says gruffly, shoving a loaded magazine into his gun. “I'll go first, Nikto, you take the rear, and we'll keep Brekkie in the middle.”

“Brekkie in the middle sounds like the name of a basement punk band.” His pair muses to herself, earning a huff of laughter from both of her masked sentries as they make their way in.

No sooner is his door open than the smell of decay hits Ghost's sensitive nose. It's more than just the rot of the white, furry bags of moldy beef jerky lining the tills, but the foul stench of corrupted blood. There's freaks in here, no doubt about it. He's sick of the smell, to be honest. It's been growing fainter and fainter as time wears on and the freaks decay into nothing. One day they'll all be gone for good, probably. The ones wandering around the outdoors have been falling apart at a faster rate than the ones trapped indoors, but he'll take what he can get. Fewer roaming herds is a very, very good thing. Hopefully in the next year or so they'll be gone entirely.

"Stick close, I smell freaks 'round here." Ghost says, bringing his rifle to his shoulder as they breach the doors. Breakast dutifully finds her way to his side, with Nikto trailing along close behind.

"Parker said the charcoal should be towards the back, with the grilling stuff. Apparently sand's with the outdoors department." Breakfast says, her head already on a swivel as she peeks down the aisles they pass. “I guess he used to work here.”

“Why is he not with us, then?” Nikto asks, every syllable of his innocuous question grating on the last of Ghost's nerves. Every single thing this man says and does is the most annoying shit in the entire bloody planet.

“Apparently he hid here for the first week of the outbreak. Not all that keen on going back after all that.” Ghost answers for Breakfast. He can't blame Parker that much, he probably had to do some nasty stuff to survive living in a relatively busy home and garden center at the end of the world. Lord knows Ghost isn't that keen on going back to the barracks anytime soon, not with the shit he'd seen go down there when his fellow soldiers started ripping each other apart.

“Ah. Understandable.” Nikto says as he gingerly steps over broken glass that's strewn across the cement floor. “Oh, look, there he is.”

Nikto points to a pyramid of photos on the wall, denoting the heirarchy of various managers of different departments. Parker looks nothing like his smiling, sanitized portrait above the title 'Warehouse Manager'. The three of them stare at his photo for a moment, shoulder to shoulder and completely silent. Ghost's only known Parker a few months, as he was one of the first to come back to the base with Soap, but the man he knows looks only vaguely similar to the photo on the wall. The Parker he knows has shaggier hair, dark rings under his eyes, and a permanently nervous expression.

“Warehouse, huh? Explains why he knows where everything is, I guess.” Breakfast says as she marches up to the portrait and pulls it off the wall. She smiles warmly at the picture in her hands, and slides it into her backpack. “I'm gonna give this to Finn, I think they'll like seeing their boyfriend from before.”

“Very thoughtful of you.” Nikto says, and the compliment feels like nails on a chalkboard to Ghost. It is thoughtful, lord knows Ghost would love to see pictures of Breakfast pre-apocalypse one day, but hell if he's going to say anything like that in front of his self-appointed nemesis.

“Come on, we didn't come for picture day. Grab a shopping cart, both of you. It'll be easier to drag everything out that way.” Ghost says gruffly, ears perking up at the sound of movement towards the back corner of the store. There's something moving around back there, and based on smell alone, it's not likely to be a bird or stray cat.

As the other two make their way to the grilling supplies with shopping carts in tow, Ghost can hear the freak, breathing heavy and moaning, feet shuffling unsteadily across the floor towards the metallic clanging of empty shopping baskets traversing trash-strewn aisles. The stink of it's overwhelming, filling his nose, making it hard to smell anything else. He pulls the butt of his rifle tight to his shoulder, finger hovering by the trigger guard, ready to fire at the first sight of one of those... monsters.

“Hurry up, we have company!” Ghost barks over his shoulder. There's a grunt of acknowledgment from Nikto, followed by the sound of a heavy bag of charcoal being loaded into a shopping cart. From around a corner, a freak in an orange apron scuffles forward. Ghost takes her in for a moment- a plastic name tag reads “Tats”, and there's a pride pin on the apron next to her name, orange and white and pink. It's easy to forget that this thing was a person once, probably a pretty thing, if what's left of her face is any indication. Ah, well. Nothing to be done for her now.

She's moving too slowly to merit the hassle of an attention-getting rifle blast, her left ankle clearly at the brink of cracking apart. She can't move very fast, and by the time Ghost has his knife in her brain, she's barely had the time to raise her leathery arms to grab at him. There's a beat before she falls heavily to his feet, and Ghost braces her body with a firm boot at he retrieves his knife from her skull.

“Sorry, Tats.” He mumbles under his breath, taking in the stillness of her body as thick black blood pours from her head wound. He's not normally very emotional about the eradication of freaks, but seeing her name, her pride pin- it's a stark reminder of her former humanity.

“FUCK!” The sound of Breakfast's scream sends Ghost running blindly her direction. There's no time to assess, no time to take stock of the situation, just instant, blind panic as he runs as fast as he can towards his pair. Fast as he is, he's still too late. Nikto is standing on top of a downed freak, the business end of his ice pick hilt-deep in it's forehead.

“Jesus, Nikto, thank you. It came out of nowhere, I didn't even- I didn't-” Nerves are hitting her hard, and something awful writhes and twists in Ghost's guts. Guilt, self-loathing, and jealousy comingle as he watches his pair, his Brekkie, touch Nikto gently on the arm in thanks.

“It is alright. This is what I am here for, yes? To keep you safe.” Nikto says gently, patting on the hand she's placed on his arm.

“Nikto, do an interior perimeter sweep and make sure there's nothing else. Brekkie and I will finish loading up.” Ghost barks, and the look his pair throws him doesn't escape his notice. She's annoyed at his snappishness towards Nikto, he'd bet money on it. It can't be helped, really. Ghost wasn't a particularly good man in life, and in death, even less so. He's petty, territorial, and jealous. He knows that. She knows that. It should hardly be a surprise he doesn't take kindly to someone else taking it upon themselves to protect what's his.

“Of course.” Nikto says evenly, as if nothing were wrong at all. Prick. Ghost watches with narrowed eyes as Nikto disappears behind shelving, his glare interrupted by a hard smack to his shoulder.

“Stop being such a fucking dick to him. He's only saved my life twice now. Find some gratitude, for pete's sake.” She hisses, and, god, it really says something about him that it makes his tail wag when she's pissed off. He's sure one day he'll push it too far and she'll try to leave like so many men and women before her, but unlike the rest of them, she's his pair. Not working it out isn't an option, not now that her blood sings for him, regenerates at a supernatural speed solely for his benefit. No matter the hurdles, he's determined to put in the work to fix it every time.

“Once. He only did it the once, you'dve been fine today. These freaks are falling apart, should be any day now that they all reach the state of decay that reduces 'em to dust.” Ghost replies dismissively, kicking at the rotten corpse at his feet and ignoring the way Breakfast crosses her arms over her chest. “Come on, let's run these out to the truck and check the back for more supplies.”

Breakfast doesn't say anything, just sucks her teeth and dutifully loads up another big bag into the cart, lifting with her knees. Good girl.

Loading up the truck is easy enough, two freaks aside, it's a rather uneventful fetch mission. Ghost clears a path of rubble and rotten body parts through the store with a big push broom he found, making the journeys bakc and forth to the truck much easier for the carts. At some point Nikto pops out of nowhere, apparently done with the errand Ghost had sent him on, silently lending a hand and loading the charcoal into the back.

"Thanks, Nikto. For everything." Breakfast says as they settle into their places in the truck, words weighted in a way Ghost doesn't like. Nikto perks up a bit at being addressed by her, sitting up straighter with a shine in his eyes. He always does, Ghost's noticed. It makes something churn in his guts, a black, sour ichor that threatens to poison him with rage.

"Of course. This is what friends are for, yes?" Nikto replies, daring to reach out and pat Breakfast's shoulder again.

“Enough.” Ghost snaps, putting the truck into gear and ignoring the unimpressed glare Breakfast is throwing him. Maybe she's right to be annoyed, maybe he is being unreasonable, but hell if he's ever going to admit it or apologize without her asking him to. The drive home is tense and quiet, with only the road noise and the sound of static as Breakfast makes her pass through the AM and FM dials again.

~

Unloading the truck is fast enough work between the three of them, and Ghost is grateful that Nikto has the decency to slink away silently to god-knows-where as soon as the task is done. The less time spent around him, the better, as far as Ghost's concerned.

There's just something so offputting about the way that man keeps secrets, although he supposes it's a bit hypocritical of him to judge that. Lord knows he's got his own secrets hidden under his mask, away from strangers and friends alike. Hell, the only reason Price knows anything about his diet is he'd caught Ghost fangs-deep in a stray dog when he'd first turned, back when he was sloppy and inexperienced. Still, it doesn't sit well that Nikto knows Ghost's hidden secrets while he's left wondering why the fuck he can't smell the masked Russian.

Ghost silently follows Breakfast out of the supply depot and across the base back to their apartment, trudging up the stairs at her slow, steady pace. He could shoot up these steps in no time, it would only take a second to fly up, but he prefers being near his pair, keeping an eye on her even if it means doing things the hard way. The long way. The human way. Besides, following along behind is the best way to watch her ass move as she climbs the stairs.

"Don't want you hangin' around Nikto without me anymore." Ghost says as soon as the door shuts behind them, and Breakfast spins on her heel to throw him a capital-l Look.

"What? Why? He's a little weird, but he's super helpful and nice and not, like, actively rude or malicious or anything." Breakfast tells him with furrowed brows.

"Can't smell him." Ghost says simply, and Breakfast rolls her eyes.

"That's stupid. That's... olfactory prejudice or something. Besides, he saved me, Ghost. Took a literal bullet for me back at Graves's barn and stabbed that zombie in the back of the store today. Surely those are points in his favor?" She looks so earnest, it almost changes his mind. For the life of him, Ghost can't explain exactly why someone he perceives as a threat to the community would save her, but he still can't shake off the feeling of unease.

"Still. Don't want you hangin' around him alone."

"... Are you jealous?" She scoffs when Ghost tilts his head back, preferring to stare at the ceiling than acknowledge her statement. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous. Nothing's going to happen between us, OK? I'm your pair, and I'm also done arguing about this. Gimme a bite so I can go to bed, my skin is starting to feel tight." Breakfast holds her arm out impatiently, and Ghost can tell that she's absolutely itching for it.

"No." He says with a mean smirk that she can't see but can surely hear. She blinks at him, disbelieving.

"What?"

"No. You agree to stay away from him, or you don't get bit." Ghost shrugs. Breakfast isn't likely to try to go for a razor blade to fix this herself, no matter how stubborn she can get, but even if she does go for a knife or something, Ghost is more than prepared to hold her down and stop her.

"I'm not going to do that, Ghost. He's my friend, and you don't own me." She says, squaring up. It's cute, really. There's no way she could take him in any sort of physical confrontation, even if he was still a living human being.

"No, I don't, but you're my pair, aren't you? It's my responsibility to look out f'you. If I've got the feelin' that someone's bad news, it's my job to say so and tell you what's what, innit?" he crosses his arms, and the way Breakfast stares at his arms doesn't escape his attention. It's such an ego boost, having this pretty thing ogle him like that, even when she's annoyed.

"I'm going to pretend that you're being sweet. Now bite me or I'm going to medical and getting a blood draw." Breakfast keeps her arm out, an offering made veins up. As hungry as Ghost is, it's very tempting.

"You wouldn't dare." Ghost says before she cocks a defiant eyebrow at him. "Alright, you would. Still, I'm asking you as my pair- stay away from him."

“And I'm telling you as your pair- you're not the boss of me. Now bite me so we can go to bed." She waggles her arm around in the air.

"Not until you tell me you'll steer clear of Nikto." He says stubbornly, setting his jaw as she sighs and rolls her eyes at him. "Simon, I'm not going to do that. You're being weird and this time it's not fucking cute." She pushes past him and heads back towards the coat rack, grabbing an empty backpack.

"What are you up to? Where you goin'?" Ghost asks, incredulous.

"Medical for a blood draw, and then I'm staying the night at Parker and Finn's. You aren't invited." Breakfast says tersely, and if Ghost's heart was beating, it would stop. It's not fear he's feeling, but it's as close as he's come in a good long while. He learned as a kid not to give into it, to face it with bravado and cover it up so no one can detect it. It's just a spat, nobody's dying, there's no reason to be vulnerable here.

"That puntable lad and his equally tiny little partner? You think they'll be able to stop me from getting my girl back?" He practically growls through clenched fangs as he watches her stuff spare clothes intot he bag.

"They don't need to stop you, like I said, you aren't invited. That means you can't come in." Fuck, shit, he wishes she were less clever sometimes. Too smart for her own good, that girl.

"I can make Finn invite me. Or his pretty little boyfriend." Hell, the way Finn looks him over sometimes, he doesn't think he'd even need to thrall them. Just ask a quick favor and bam, he's in.

"Not if you ever want me to speak to you again." She snaps, and, oh, shit, he can tell she's serious.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe, Brekkie. Come on, don't be like this." He's not pleading. He's not. It's not desperation clawing inside of him, anxious to keep her safe and sound and in his bed.

"Come on yourself! If he's so dangerous then tell me what he's done. Go on, list his sins. I'll wait." She crosses her arms and leans against the door frame, backpack looped over one shoulder, all ready to go. Ghost sighs and silently purses his lips. There's no concrete evidence of a problem, not really. All he knows for sure is that Nikto is something else, half of a broken pair that doesn't smell human when he bleeds. He'd share that information with Breakfast, but he already knows her counter argument- I'm half of a pair, and you're not human either. You're being judgmental over nothing.

“Right. OK. I'm leaving. Don't follow me until you either grow the fuck up or come up with a real reason I shouldn't trust a man that's saved my life twice while you were in the same room.” She says, snagging her toothbrush from the cup by the sink and marching out into the hallway, leaving Ghost alone in the apartment. He knows she was holding back, that the little barb about him failing to save her twice was the least of his sins. Hell, they only met because he stalked and terrorized her into coming with him. There's no doubt in Ghost's mind that she's got plenty of other things she could have thrown in his face, and all he can do is begrudgingly admire her restraint as he listens to the sound of her storming off down the stairs, her footsteps growing fainter by the second.

The resulting silence in the apartment is oppressive. If he could breathe, he'd be doing his exercises, deep breaths in and out to help regulate the sudden surge of rage that's rising up inside of him. But there is no breath in his lungs, no functioning nervous system to calm down. There's nothing to be done to regulate this angry, sick, twisty feeling in his rotten guts that makes him feel ill. So he grits his teeth, pulls his mask off, and throws it as hard as he can, embedding the skull deep in the drywall as he slumps to his knees and lets his frustrations and self-loathing wash over him like a powerful tide.

[mortuarywriting]

hello again.

i’m sorry i’ve been quiet and i know the timing for so many of you is terrible but if you have the time i’d really appreciate some help paying my bills or buying groceries

(the first link will take you to my ko-fi, the second link will take you to my throne wishlist which has gift cards to one of the big supermarkets near me)

thank you to all of you for sticking with me and for your help so far this year. i love you all very much 💜

[mortuarywriting]

REBLOG IF YOU WANT A BOOP + SEXUAL TENSION

[mortuarywriting]

shitty shop for bippity bops

[mortuarywriting]

Reblog if its ok to spam you with boops

[mortuarywriting]

Happy Birthday Charlie!

It's @sentientcave's birthday, and I wanted to F I N A L L Y do an author rec for him!

Name: Charlie (He/They) Links!: Twitter - AO3 - Ko-fi

My Favorite: Retirement Party Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You. (Dark fic! Read the content warnings)

Runner Up: Heavy Weighs the Crown Fantasy AU - A princess in self-imposed exile is forced to come home to face the man who took her father's crown and the life she left behind. 141 x Reader.

Runner Up to the Runner Up: Hit Me With Your Best Shot When Rory "Scout" Price moves in with her dad after a rough break-up, she's looking forward to reconnecting while she gets her feet back under her. But unfortunately, a post-divorce Kyle Garrick is moving in too, and he seems determined to be a pain in the ass. But then again, he is kind of hot.

Favorite Not Yet Posted Story:

EVERYTHING

WITH

RIPPER

AKA The Rugby AU (I'm working on a Kinktober Prompt with Ripper in it and I know I'm overthinking it but I want Charlie to like it so so so bad it makes me stupid.)

Why I recommend: It's long, so it'll go under the cut.

Where do I even start?

Every reader character and OC invites you to explore what makes them tick. They're flawed, and because they're flawed, they're good. They're real. And they're diverse, lovingly and intentionally. It's clear that Charlie does the research to intentionally write about experiences outside of his own. (Y'all... he researched Philippine Spanish for Retirement Party. For a conversation with a side character. The stars in my eyes...)

Charlie loves the complexities of these characters. Their ups, their downs, their triumphs and their failures. I don't think I've ever rooted for and hated and loved and wanted to strangle Captain John Price like I do when Charlie writes him. There's no glossing over the fact that Price is an asshole with Charlie. But there's no mistaking that he cares, either (in his awful, terrible, patented John Price ways).

I've grown so much as a writer for the conversations I've been able to have with Charlie. My understanding of the 141 is deeper, not just when it comes to cannon, but also what makes them tick in my stories. I'm so excited to explore the world of Being Gaz's Ex, which was directly inspired by the way Charlie writes Price in Nobody Does it Better. It's the way Price loves and it isn't enough and how sometimes it's okay that that's not okay.

Every time Charlie shares a bit of writing with me, I lose a little bit of my mind. And I hope that you all will appreciate Charlie with me, today!