#mac in his feels

[kurtisontherun]

still there.

pairings: gn!reader x zombie!simon riley

warnings: mentions of disease, infections, gore, violence, alcohol and the occasional cigarette.

genre: angst, hurt/no comfort, go be happy elsewhere.

this is my first fic and by the time it’s posted, i’ve probably proofread it a million times, but feel free to correct my English as it’s not my first language and i’m not very confident.

It was the 360th day after the outbreak. Or was it the 361st? You couldn’t remember anymore. What was the point in counting the days after the most miserable, dreadful tragedy had struck and taken away the one you loved the most? You smoked one of your last cigarettes from the stock—helped take the edge off things, you told yourself. But did it ever? No.

Not when you were sat on a chair in front of the door that led down to the basement. The basement in which you still kept Simon—or whatever was left of him.

Simon. Simon Riley. Your Simon. Your Si. Your husband. The man you promised to outlive the world with.

“We are going to kick the world’s arse together, love.” Simon would whisper in your ear as he spooned you in bed. You would pretend not to hear him so he would keep talking—he was never much of a talker. But he liked to whisper sweet nothings when he thought you couldn’t hear him.

You stared at the wedding band on your finger, worn and still stuck on your phalange, though it was quite clearly too tight for you. How would you get it resized anyway? You took another drag. You heard a creak, the clankings of the chain and a grumpy grumble downstairs. Simon.

He was a veteran. After a severe injury during a torture session, which Simon never recovered from, he was honorably discharged. It took him years to even bring it up. Years to heal from it enough to open up to you about how much it hurt. To let you hold him through a nightmare about that night, his arm turning limp in your lap as if his tendon had been cut all over again, as if his arm was mangled again, his forehead, his scalp and the back of his neck and his back in general all drenched in a cold sweat. He wasn’t crying, but he was clearly disturbed, his whole body unresponsive as he leaned paralyzed against you, eyes wide as he stared into nothing with a haunted expression on his face. You just held him until he snapped out of it. Startling him out of it, as gentle as you were with it by poking him, would only make him gasp like he had come up from the ground of the ocean after a long swim; he wouldn’t speak; only shut down and go back to sleep with his back turned to you. And he wouldn’t speak to you the next morning.

Simon was infected early on into the outbreak. And you could never leave the house without him. You could never leave him. Never. You promised—you swore.

“Don’t go, please, God—not you too, please, please—” Simon scrambled out of bed as you got up from the mattress. He had a nightmare, he wasn’t entirely himself. Simon would never act this way. No; he had too much decorum. He was too reserved. Too afraid to let himself be known on a deeper level than simple pleasantries. “I need you—I, I need you. Don’t leave me. Please.” He pleaded, nearly falling off the bed as he grabbed at whatever body part of yours he could reach first to pull you back towards him. His eyes were so full of tears you didn’t even think he could see straight. He wobbled in place, unstable, dizzy. But you couldn’t leave him.

“I won’t. I promise, Simon. I just need to refill your water bottle. Do you want to come with?”

He was sick that night. Coughing like a madman, sweating, unable to breathe. He was scared. Tossing and turning in bed. As the days went by, he became less and less agitated. The fevers got higher, rendering him only half-lucid half of the time. He was bedbound for two weeks before he turned. He didn’t suffer, though. On the last two days, he was so feverish that he passed out. The color draining from his face. He was dying, and he was unable to give you any last words.

Those days were over. In a sick way, you were conflicted. On one hand, to your satisfaction, Simon wasn’t suffering anymore, but on the other, Simon wasn’t there with you anymore. Not really. Not entirely. You weren’t completely sure. It looked like Simon, if only a little bit. He was still muscular, tall and handsome as your husband always had been. The scars had changed; they had gotten uglier. Like black, decaying tissue that littered his skin, which previously had a pinkish, cool undertone, and now looked like nothing in particular. It was a grayish, sickly purple. Like no blood flowed through it, like no semblance of life was in it. Like a living corpse. His hair hadn’t grown in nearly a year, it was the same as you remembered; that shaggy haircut that you had pleaded Simon to change, but he swore it made him charming. His beard was still the same, short blond stubble, although dirtier and more unkempt.

And God, the eyes—the once beautiful brown eyes, that looked like pools of the sweetest honey in the summer sunshine in the late afternoon. Lifeless. Bloodshot like they would implode at any second. But there was no blood flowing—of course there wasn’t. He was dead There was no other color on his face. His complexion was pale and sickly. There was no color on his lips. The freckles looked blueish on his skin. If there was any blood flowing, you would have noticed at least a little bit of color, you figured.

Rationally, you knew, he was dead. Gone. He didn’t remember you. He didn’t know his own name; at least not until you called it. He would make a full body turn if you called him his full name, “Simon Riley!”, all angry as if you could ever be mad at him, and yet you knew deep down—it was nothing. It wasn’t Simon. It was a muscle memory response, devoid of any meaning. He didn’t understand what those words meant.

But God, was it hard to believe he wasn’t there. You watched him throughout the day sometimes. Checked on him. Brought him food. As if you would hear a soft ‘thank you’ in his Mancunian accent. As if he would give you a kiss on the cheek if you made his favorite meal to please him. He didn’t. There was no whisper, and there was no kiss on the cheek with those chapped lips that you begged him to moisturize. He just stared at it with a hollow hunger. Like he was hungry but couldn’t feel hunger. Because he was dead. And eventually, he crouched and ate it with his bare hands like some kind of animal.

You are watering a dead plant, a rational part of you told you, seeing your husband that way. So careless, so animalistic in a way Simon could never be if he were still alive. He wasn’t some refined bourgeoisie asshole, but he had manners, at least. Simon wouldn’t act this way.

He’s dead. And you knew it was right. You watched with tears in your eyes as he ate up the food you made him with his bare hands, spilling and dirtying his grimy hands like a toddler who couldn’t hold a spoon properly. Simon would never. He didn’t like you touching his face to wipe away crumbs. He’d gently push your hand off his face, grumbling about how he was “a big boy” who could wipe the crumbs off on his own, in front of a mirror. He would never be caught dead like this. Yet there he was, you supposed.

You rushed upstairs and left Simon to his own devices in the basement, which you had worked tirelessly on to convert it to a bedroom. You gave him an old, creaky bed even if you knew he didn’t need to sleep anymore. You cleaned the basement from time to time. All to make him comfortable. As if he would notice.

You slammed the door shut and locked it from the outside, then the two padlocks and the lock you had placed to bolt that door to the ground.

Damn it—damn the world for taking him away and leaving you with this husk of who he was, a shell of his former self. This God forsaken decoy of Simon, that still smelled like him. Like gunpowder, cigarettes and neat whiskey. His favorite cologne was still on that fucking sweater. His favorite sweater, a black turtleneck that clinged to his waist just right. It was filthy now.

You could watch him all you want. Watch him idly stand in the middle of the basement and stare at nothing, watch him try to pull on the chain that you attached to his ankle so he could be free to eat you alive. But it was never the same.

Sometimes you would be able to make out words that Simon would say a lot, being grumbled clumsily by this doppelganger of your husband, which was falling apart where it stood. “Jo—hnny.” “Capt—ain.” “Rog—er.” “C—–opy.” “L–love.” “Lo—vie.” “Watch.” Sometimes it would laugh exactly like Simon did. Sometimes it would say some strange nothings, as if trying to tell you something. Sometimes, if it heard a familiar sound, it would mimic Simon’s mannerisms as if practicedly. If the safety of a gun clicked, Simon would pull out an inexistent gun and pull the trigger, or pretend to assemble and reload a rifle. If a phone rang, he would wait for the third ring before reaching for his pocket and picking an imaginary phone up, the way Simon did when he was there, grumbling something about “if they’re calling despite being ignored, it must really matter,” calling it filtering his calls. If the microwave rang as you were heating up food, he would grab an imaginary dish and pretend to burn himself with it as he stubbornly never wore gloves to pick up boiling hot dishes. The stunt double had gotten him down to A T.

And the worst part was that it was enough for you.

It was enough for you to install traps all around the house, keep Simon strung up in your basement and throw down meals for him, sometimes live animals for him to tear up like a starving wild dog.

Simon had tried to bite you more times than you could count; but you had forgiven him each and every time. You didn’t hold a grudge. You told him you still loved him. You told him he was still your Simon. That he was beautiful. You wept as you asked him not to be afraid—as if he felt anything at all. You didn’t know if he did. In your head he did.

You sometimes heard him beg for help as he babbled incoherently, his Mancunian accent alive and well, his voice and speech getting worse and worse each day. He sounded more incoherent as the days went by, more animalistic. The words slowly became animalistic nothings, growls and grumbles that meant nothing. He was rotting from the inside out, decaying and perishing right before your very eyes. The longer you waited, the more the virus consumed what was left of Simon. Each day he smelled worse. You bathed him, of course. But it didn’t go away, the stomach-turning smell of rotting flesh. You tried to get him to brush his teeth, but nothing could mask the smell. Not even if you bathed him in his cologne.

But the fact that the zombie looked like him and sometimes sounded like him was enough for you. Putting it that way, it sounds sick, but it justified all of the work you had put in. It was enough to keep you hopeful, keep you thinking—or rather, fooling yourself into thinking—that there was still a way to bring him back, enough to keep you praying on your bedside each night, begging to have your Simon back. You were absolutely confident he was still there to some extent. That it was just a matter of time before someone found a cure and you and Simon would be free of this hell.

Free to kick the world’s arse together. The way he had intended. Until then, you were rotting in this farmhouse. Until Simon came back to you. Until your last cigarette was finished. Until the last tooth decayed and fell from his putrid mouth.

[heartorbit]

figure skating set right now please. thanks

[theoldkyokodied]

normal guys in a normal relationship (giving you a not very convincing thumbs up). macdennis doodles from this week :)

[chawliekin]

and if I said that dennis’ insistence on being the breadwinner/provider despite literally being a pampered princess who dgaf about traditional roles of masculinity in every other regard (aside from ego) is because his mom only stayed with/chose frank for his wealth and dennis is highly aware that he’s difficult to love and unable to show his emotions openly so he has to be contributing something to the relationship materially in order to feel like he’s worth staying for… and mac grew up with parents who were extremely ambivalent to him and eachother so he has to overcompensate by proving his worth at every given moment and seeking praise/validation from people (and religious icons) who will never demonstrate the same amount of dedication to him but he has no idea how else to desperately keep himself close to those he loves other than by eroding himself into something they’ll approve of… dear god they’re both exactly what the other needs — someone who can’t and won’t leave them even if they try — and they don’t even see it…

[chrliekclly]

[hajihiko]

Multilingual 🌍

Fuyuhiko: its beneficial to understand when rivals are talking in secret

Sonia: diplomacy is easier when you speak their language too

Hajime: duolingo library forced speedrun

Akane: worked in customer service

Kazuichi is just more of a Language of Numbera guy 😋

[felsicveins]

His heart belongs to another

And no other heart will do

[ne-cocoa]

If past wukong met up with the current Macaque :3

[larrylimericks]

12Jul24

Three hundred and fifty-six days Since last we saw Harry on stage, But tonight a duet! For Ms. Nicks’ Hyde Park set, And a Songbird who’s now flown away.

[houseswife]

listen I honestly think wilson really enjoyed that little arc where he was cooking every single one of house’s meals. I know he’s house’s main source of food anyway but usually just via ��stolen’/bought lunch at work. I’m talking about when they lived together in season 2 and his ass made macadamia nut pancakes for breakfast on a WEEKDAY. and pot roast for dinner. so much effort and for what…because house was gobbling that shit up…? yes he complained about it every time but he also had an extra fork on hand when house came home to stuffed peppers. it feeds into his need to be needed complex. the intimate dependency of someone relying on you for sustenance. also why they used food as the metaphor for why house was craving his presence. this is what I mean when I say that wilson deserved a housewife era. house went stir crazy within like 12 seconds of doing all their chores because he requires Stimulation™️ but I’m completely convinced that it would act as enrichment for wilson. if I told him to go make me a sandwich he’d roll his eyes and then passive aggressively make a delicious one. actually that literally happened in son of a coma guy. case closed

[ariennebeak]

forever thinking about dennis pretending not to hear the chirping & getting increasingly irritated/angry at something else instead (pool drain) vs mac being tormented by the chirping and repeatedly asking dennis for confirmation he hears it too & not understanding how he doesnt. the international implications. its how they deal with their feelings for each other I'm SICK

[superangsty]

"I AM Johnny! I don't know how else to tell you!"

[charmac]

Do you think Mac has jacked off while reading the Bible? Or is he too ashamed? Or does the shame just turn him on more? Are the pages of his Bible all stuck together?

Oh, I don't think; we know:

(Pages stuck together, thanks for the confirmation, Charlie)

I think the shame definitely turns him on more, considering Mac Day:

And, the connected punishment, lest we forget The Gang Goes to Hell... (and the script here... whew)

While he was repressed then, he wasn't as of Charlie's Home Alone, so I think it's clear to claim that a part of his "homosexual awakening" was connected to the fact that he was gradually getting more and more into the idea of being punished (gone sexual) for his sins, to a point where he was just genuinely jerking off to the "evils of homosexuality"

I do wanna continue here though and say Season 15 is pretty interesting because we see Mac battle between being Catholic and proudly gay. He seemingly has no issue bragging to a Priest in the middle of a church that he's into triple penetration, but it is his sex life that is the driving "reasoning" for why he thinks he should become a Catholic Priest:

He's been "S-ing&F-ing" his way though life for too long and now he thinks God has taken away one of his identities (Irish) as a result. Mac's idea of being punished by/for God continues, but it's now through the form of revocation (as opposed to shame or flagellation). I think there's a clear "connect the dots" idea that depriving himself of sex (via becoming a Priest) is an "evolved" form of allowing God to punish him for being gay.

Obviously Mac learns he was lied to, as he actually is Irish, so his "journey" here is a bit of a wash, but the fact that his rationale jumped to God punishing him for having gay sex still stands. As he grows to accept himself, he's still looking for ways to feel shame (which, as we've seen, gets him off)...

But is the constant seeking for some form of punishment still there? We didn't see much of his Catholicism in Season 16 (I think the only mention of God from Mac was in The Gang Gets Cursed), but we did continue to see his sex life and—well, that was pretty heavy on Mac, openly gay dating, somehow managing to be neglected and deprived of actual gay sex, wasn't it?

[chrliekclly]

ummm first time becoming self conscious about the way you act with your best friend because of some middle school bullies :)

[sunnykeysmash]

what I wouldn't pay to see mac punch holes into the walls of the suburbs house as he's tasked with fixing something he doesn't know how to fix and meanwhile the only constant in his mind is how much he misses dennis

[dennisboobs]

2x03 // 2x10 // 12x07 // 15x08 // 16x02

↳ Charlie + father figures