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straighttohellbuddy · 4 years ago

Text

too much time together {Corpse Husband}

Summary: Friends-To-FWB-To-Lovers. They/Them. In 2013, you start a YouTube channel as a way to pass the time and keep yourself entertained; you decide you’re going to provide earnest, family-friendly reviews of trashy, Mills & Boon-type erotica novels, not that you think much else will come of it. In 2016, you get lost down a YouTube rabbit hole, and stumble across a relatively new creator who narrates Creepypasta stories in a surprisingly soothing voice, and your three-in-the-morning-brain decides to send him an encouraging tweet, not that you think much else will come of it. At the start of 2019, you and your best friend decide to move in together in a little apartment in LA, not that you think much else will come of it. And on Halloween, 2019, after living with him for the better part of the year, the two of you hit the town together... You know, after everything that’s happened, you should definitely have expected it when something else ended up coming of this too.

{ p l a y l i s t }

A/N: 21,848 words. reader is implied to be early-20s when the fic is set. this took a little longer to finish, but that’s because it’s a little longer in total! if you already live in LA, i’m sorry. this is too many words im sorry it took so long. this caused me psychic damage because i hate editing my own work. but i’ll do it again in two days i guess. but also i do really really love this one, and i always love to hear feedback!! as always, if this, or any of my other fics, ever get to corpse himself im going to delete this entire blog. no backups. yeet.

pop culture references: Scream (1996), Community, Arrested Development, John Wick, Bojack Horseman, SCP, Among Us.

Warnings: mentions of erotica but only ever the title, no detail or description. “christmas holidays” are mentioned, but the reader and their family are never implied or stated to be affiliated with any specific religion. mentions of COVID. uhhhhhh cat costume.

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

Taglist: @slashersdream @divine-artemis @realmejay @lovemelikepercy @balla-deer @miniritzcrackers @loraleiix @ppopty @easygoingtheatre @insanedeathwish @siriuslystupid @losvertown @janiathecat @wineandionysus @moonlightsimp @allylyew @chokingonflxwers @sicnesa @xxniksxx @mishisamess @preciousskye @yashinosakura @meleekabenjamin @whatamievendoinghere01 @lxurxn-02 @liljennyx3 @the-fusionist @benjaminka @lilysdaydreams @a-lonely-bic @letsloveimagines @melmachh @tama-chan-suneater @shio-yuki @fairywriter-oracle @easygoingtheatre @pixelbxtch @dreammoutlouddd @abysshaven @mediocrearistophanes @tsukishimawh0re @inkbyajm @jordiee95 @honkcorpse @kaiihaan @takenbyheartstrings @mrtony-stank1 @dangeroustreebread @xibrokensunriseix @corpseglider @artsyally @ellsbells2143 @machine-gun-casie

----

What began as the idle thought of a bored teenager just over six years ago had somehow managed to develop in a fully sustainable career as a YouTuber, much to your surprise. It had started in your childhood bedroom, with a terrible webcam balanced on a stack of textbooks that you probably should have been using to study, and a book you’d borrowed from the library out of sheer curiosity, ignoring the judgmental look the aging librarian gave you the entire time she was checking the book out for you. Warrior’s Woman, published in 1990, with Fabio on the cover, all flowing golden hair and his oiled up, perfect physique, one hand clutching a sword, the other, holding a beautiful woman. If anyone you knew found out the type of content you intended to produce, the thoughtfully worded and earnest critique of the hastily written erotica that you’d already put the time into writing, you would probably die of embarrassment on the spot.

It’s a niche online you don’t think a lot of people have tried to fill, so you think maybe this could be you. Reviewing pulply erotica with the same gravitas as literary classics was something you just found inexplicably funny. You’re young and bored and blessed with a strange sense of humour and a webcam, so you have no idea where any of this will end up leading you.

In late 2015, only a month before you message the person who would change your life forever, one of your reviews blows up, bigger than any video you’ve ever produced; you’d been reviewing the work of the prolific and infamous author, Chuck Tingle, for a full year now, in amongst the rest of your content, but for some reason, the entire internet decided that your in-depth review of I’m Gay For My Living Billionaire Jet Plane was exactly what they needed in that exact moment. It brought subscribers, it brought recognition, it brought DMs from Chuck Tingle himself talking about how he watched all of the reviews you’d posted about his work, and that he likes your style. Then he followed you. And he still follows you, and likes your tweets, and retweets your videos about his books, and sends you copies of his latest work; you’re on a first name basis, and a semi-professional acquaintance, of infamous erotica author Chuck Tingle. That’s the one that really winded you, that made you realise that this is no longer a joke, though looking back, you find the humour in the irony of that. YouTube was no longer an idle thought or a way to kill time; making content that makes you happy might just be a viable career.

In January of 2016, it leads you to your best friend, not that you realised that at the time. You’d gained something of a following in the three years that you’d been on the platform, creeping up to four-hundred-thousand subscribers in that time, somehow not having run out of terrible erotica to review, though you did branch out quite early on to encapsulate romance as a genre, as well filming as a few more trendy videos to capitalize on the algorithm, though your heart would forever belong to the trashy stuff.

Which is why, when considering your content in relation to Corpse Husband’s, the fact that you consider him your closest friend is kind of hilarious. When you first came across his channel, he’d only been posting for six months, narrating creepypastas and producing horror-based content, and while it wasn’t your usual style, you’d managed to fall down the YouTube rabbit hole to his videos, binging them while waiting for your own video to finish rendering.

Even in the time that his channel’s grown since then, the overlap in the Venn Diagram of your shared viewers is would be barely a sliver, but that didn’t stop you, the night you’d discovered his channel, with only a few thousand subscribers, from tweeting at him at three-in-the-morning about how you appreciate his content and delivery, without thinking much of it beyond wanting to encourage a smaller creator.

When you wake, it’s too more than a few unexpected notifications, including a DM from @corpse_husband himself, thanking you for your kind message and support. While you send back a kind sentiment, you’re internally panicking, sitting at your computer and just kind of staring at the publish button for your latest video, now that it had finished uploading and you’d added your description and tags. Is it weird that the YouTuber who’s about to publish a review of The Billionaire’s Forbidden Conquest is throwing their support behind a small-time creepypasta YouTuber? Maybe he just didn’t know? But he must know, or at least suspect, hell, your Twitter bio was ‘getting paid to find the treasure in trashy erotica’.

So you publish your video, and the two of you keep messaging back and forth without mentioning it, which you’re not quite sure how to feel about, but then you tweet out a link to your video, and he likes it, and there’s a strange sense of disappointment that fills you. It’s not shame; you cast aside shame when one of your old high school English teachers sends a link to your viral Chuck Tingle review, mentioning that you made some good points, but it definitely is disappointment, that this potential, new YouTube friend will actually watch one of your videos and decide that you’re too weird to deal with.

But he keeps messaging you, keeps talking to you, follows you and you follow him back, and you like each other’s tweets and keep chatting and - you’re friends now, actual friends who talk daily. An unexpected development, but not unwelcome.

From the outside, it appears that there is a single tweet about how you appreciate Corpse’s content, and yes, the two of you follow each other, and occasionally like each other’s tweets, but at a glance, you’re acquaintances at best. Which, much to your mutual amusement, couldn’t be further from the truth. A being friends for several months, it’s not uncommon for you to send gleeful messages in the middle of the night the minute you get emailed your digital copy of Chuck Tingle’s latest book. Corpse, in turn, usually manages to respond with cautious horror when asking about the title.

It’s Slammed in the Butt by My Smartphone's Missing Headphone Jack this time, and he’s quick to respond with ‘horrifying, that is going to be the worst book i ever read cover to cover’.

Okay, he is right about that, but that’s only because he sends through either the best, or the so-bad-its-good ones. But even now that you’re no longer doing as many erotica reviews, he still reads the ones you do choose to review. In a strange and silly way, it warms your heart to be able to ask his opinion about a part of the book that you’re stumped on, and for him to come back to you with his own thoughts, understanding the text, and the seriousness with which you approach it.

[you say that every time]

[and every time you surprise me with how ridiculous they are]

[i did like Kissed on the Weiner by My Own Weiner tho]

[you don’t have to keep reading them just because i’m reviewing them]

[i never said i didn’t enjoy it]

[also i know you always read whatever r/nosleep link i send you so its only fair]

Talk quickly turns from your respective sets of YouTube content, to your other interests, to just shooting the shit about life, talking all night about everything and nothing. You realise probably too late that he’s become one of your closest friends. Not that anyone else knows that, or would even suspect.

He had talked you through your channel’s identity crisis of Spring, 2017, where, after briefly collaborating with UK-based Film-Adaption YouTuber Dominic Nobel on a series of long-form video essays on the three Fifty Shades books, and then-two movies, playing to your strength of erotica analysis and his of adaption analysis, you’d since moved on to analysis and critique of pop culture through incredibly long-form video essays.

After a a year and a half of chatting daily, and texting back and forth, both finally convinced that neither is catfishing the other, you’re glad to be able to put a face to a name, and finally visit each other in person. Unlike you, he’s never put his any real identifying part of his identity online beyond his voice, so to be granted the privilege's of getting to see him in person, you’re more than grateful knowing how much it means he trusts you. The only thing that comes close to surprising you is just how handsome he is, which you don’t dwell on at the time.

An Instagram Story post from @yourinstagram’s archive, September 2017:

[ID: A photo of a pale man in a dark button down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His face is cut out of shot. He is holding a take away coffee cup in one hand, and flipping off the camera with the other. Behind him is a street with cars going past on a bright, sunny day, and stores lining the other side of the road.

It’s captioned ‘don’t mind that he’s camera shy, just glad he’s finally here!!’ in orange text, with a thick, yellow squiggle behind so the words can be read clearly. There is a large starry eyed emoji [🤩] in the top left and bottom right corner.

There is no-one tagged in the post.

End ID.]

At the end of 2017, you hit your first million subscribers.

So in early 2019, when you mention wanting to move to LA to be closer to the industry, Corpse is the one to suggest that you look for a place together. It’s cheaper with two people, both of you understand YouTube in a way that non-YouTubers just don’t, so there’s already an implicit understanding there that you wouldn’t get with most other people, and really the alternative is either living someone expensive but terrible on your own, or try and figure out share-accommodation with strangers. Both alternatives are woefully unappealing, so you crash on his sofa in the cramped share house he was looking to get out of for a week while you look at places around LA together.

With sights set on a modest two bedroom apartment, you come to see that there are rather slim pickings; even with two people paying the rent, looking for somewhere livable was difficult in a place like LA. Right from the start, you had kind of been resigned to the idea that you might have to live like rats in some out of the way health-hazard that would barely pass a safety inspection.

Finally, finally, you feel like you catch a break on your last day in LA, checking out a place at the edge of the CBD that technically three bedrooms, though the kitchen and living room are only divided by a kitchen island and the flooring changing from vinyl to carpet. All three of the bedrooms are a little on the small side, but livable; Corpse leans against the doorframe while you’re peering out of the window of the master bedroom, suggesting that it could be your shared office, both of you taking one of the small bedrooms instead of fighting over the bigger one. Already you think you start planning where you think the furniture should go in this glorified shoebox of an apartment that you’re already a little invested in. It fits within your budget, the location is pretty good, and it even has a bathtub. After your visit to the apartment with the realtor, and a frank discussion about how it’s realistically the best place you’ve looked at so far, you lodge your application, and are thrilled to be picking up the keys two weeks later.

Pairing down all of your belongings had been difficult, but once you’ve consolidated everything, brought them to your new apartment, and lugged them all up to your floor, you can’t help but feel freer. Windows open, boxes stacked throughout the house, both yours and Corpse’s, you’re excited to be able to call this space, in part, your own. There were only four pieces of furniture you’d brought from home, your bed, your drawers, your desk, and your fancy gaming chair that you’d bought because it was comfortable, all wrapped in towels to prevent damage, bungee-corded to the trailer you’d hitched to the back of your car. Corpse, it seems, is mostly in the same boat, judging by the fact that the two of you, and a very kind stranger, lug all your furniture up together, never more grateful for elevators than you are today. That left everything else, and everything communal, up to the two of you to source nearby, through thrifting, or Facebook marketplace, just grateful one of your friends who lived near by was able to gift you a sofa that had been sitting in their garage since they’d upgraded. It’s a little worn around the edge, but comfortable and spacious, easily filling up the cozy living space.

Once you’ve almost finished unpacking, and the sofa’s in place, and the TV, the only thing you’d both agreed to splash out on and get new, was all plugged in with all it’s various consoles wired up, you flop back onto the sofa, heaving a loud sigh of relief, exhausted but pleased as the place began to feel more and more like home. Laughter escapes you, breathless, disbelieving, bright; you’re home, finally.

“Dude, we’re actually here!” You call out to your new housemate, equal parts joyful and relieved. When last you’d left him, Corpse had been in the office, wedged in beneath his desk, swearing quietly as he was hooking up his monitors.

“Home sweet home,” his voice holds the faintest hint of distracted irritation as he calls back. When you peer over the back of the sofa to investigate, he’s still in the office, holding one of his monitors aloft as he’s scowling at the back of it, “did the port fucking disappear?” You hear him mutter mostly to himself, and you decide to leave him too it, sprawling out and rewarding yourself with Netflix.

There’s still a few scattered boxes and a suitcase for you to unpack by the time you’re both calling it a day, but it’s nice to be able to eat take out for dinner, and watch TV in a place you can call your own, enthusing to Corpse about the house, about the things you know you still need to get, about how thrilled you are to be with here with him, how good it is not having to worry about where you were going to be living in a few months time. It feels like it’s taken forever, but he’s just as glad as you are to have finally gotten here.

An Instagram Story post from @yourinstagram:

[ID: A boomerang video of Y/N sitting up, and then flopping back onto their bed, repeated. Y/N is smiling widely. The duvet is patterned and looks very soft. It’s captioned ‘FINALLY HOME’ in white letters, backed by dark blue, and there is a gif of the words ‘HOME SWEET HOME’ in pink and yellow sway in the left hand corner.

The song playing is Whatever Forever by The Mowgli’s, specifically the lyrics: But it's alright / It's getting better all the time / It's alright / Yeah, it's alright / And when the sun comes up / Like it always does / It's whatever forever.

End ID.]

Even now, three years into your friendship, it still amuses you to no end knowing that absolutely no-one on the entire internet seems to suspect that that friendship even exists. It’s not that you wouldn’t love to let the world know that the two of you are close, but it’s more about protecting Corpse’s privacy as best you can, and you’re more than happy to oblige him in that. Before posting anything that’s related to him, you always run it past him, though usually that’s just photos, making sure he can’t be identified in any way, never any videos incase you miss something, or someone recognises his voice; your fans are aware of your mysterious friend-now-housemate, but thankfully no-one has connected him to Corpse Husband.

Now, here you were, watching Season 2 of Community with him on your shared sofa as research for your next video, content and full from dinner, empty takeout boxes scattered on the kitchen counter.

“What’s your working title again?” He’s asking about the video you’re apparently researching by watching the series, settling further into the sofa. Clearly he’s intrigued, gaze fixed firmly on the television as one of the characters goes into labour in the middle of an “exam”, despite the test appearing to just be drinking, for whatever reason.

“Season 4 of Community is Not That Bad and Dan Harmon Needs To Sit Down,” you rattle off easily, tipping your head to the side, “I’m thinking of working something about Chevy Chase being a dick in there, but maybe I’ll just put that in, like, the thesis or the thumbnail.”

“And this is...?”

“Season 2,” you tell him, not looking away from the TV, even though you catch him turning to you out of the corner of your eye.

“Shouldn’t you be watching Season 4?”

“I’ll get there,” you assure, huffing a laugh following it with a vaguely dismissive gesture, “and I mean, I have already seen it probably too many times,” you turn to look at him, chin pressing to your shoulder, expression faintly amused, “you telling me you don’t want to watch the best two-part, season-finale, paintball-game in all of television history?”

“Alright, I’ll shut up,” he grins, raising his hands in mock defense, “didn’t realise what was at stake if we skipped ahead,” and he’s turning back to the sitcom right as the Dean of the school goes into high-pitched hysterics.

There’s still boxes by the television stand, which itself looks too bare for your liking beside the empty bookshelf that had been crammed next to it, by the window. Tomorrow, you’ll unpack more of your things, discussing the common space while lining up pop vinyls in front of the TV, both yours and his, and the bookshelf will fill with DVDs and books and figurines and trinkets, and before you know it, you’ll look around, heart in your throat when you can see both your fingerprints across the parts that make the apartment feel like home.

“I can’t believe you have physical copies of some of these,” Corpse’s grinning is all teeth as he’s leaning down, studying the titles that fill one of your shelves on the bookshelf. The one closest to eye level is completely reasonable, novels and books and notebooks, as well as a few sundry items; the one you’ve claimed at shin-height, however was the physical copies of erotica you’ve already reviewed.

“I can move it into the office, I’ve been meaning to get a decent backing for my videos; would make sense in there,” you hadn’t thought much about it when you’d put them up this morning, but in hindsight, you realise you probably should have; your collection of terrible erotica isn’t exactly the most tasteful living room décor. At present, you’re putting away cutlery and plates, pausing only to frown, “sorry, I know I should have asked, it’s not exactly polite to have it all out -”

“Don’t apologise, it’s fucking hilarious,” he snickered, straightening up and giving a quick stretch, his own morning having been filled with unpacking too, “it’s not like you’ve got actual sex toys on the shelf, I don’t give a shit.”

“Do I look like Cr1tikal to you?” You asked flatly, though the corners of your lips quirked into a smirk, to which he actually laughed, conceding that, yes actual sex toys on a communal bookshelf was a far more Cr1tikal move to pull.

“How do you feel about the layout of the kitchen?” You ask after a beat, changing the topic as you’re pulling your final stack of plates from the box labelled in kind, squatting down to put them with the rest of the tack. Corpse takes a deep breath, joining you, peering into the cupboards.

“I'm sure you know what you’re doing; kitchen layout doesn’t bother me so long as I know where everything is,” he conceded, leaning his hip on the counter, “you need a hand in here or am I okay to follow your lead on where to unpack the last of my shit?”

“I think I’m right, so go for your life,” you said, huffing a pleased little sigh as you closed the cupboard door on the last of your crockery, “if you wanna start with the box by the microwave that you’ve labeled mugs, I’ve put my mugs and glasses in one cupboard, over there by the sink,” you informed him, stepping back until you got to the corner of the counter, upon which you sat, watching him pull out a collection of mugs. “Baking stuff and weird cooking things are in the cupboard by the oven, cleaning supplies are under the sink,” you rattled off, “cutlery is in the top draw, and utensils are in the second; plates and bowls are...” you frowned, leaning over to open the cupboard by your left calve, double checking that you had, in fact, just put your plates in there, “here.”

“Organized as hell; God you’re good,” he crouches by the cupboard, throwing you a thankful smile before putting his own mugs away. It’s... comfortable, so much more comfortable than you’d been anticipating this early on. For just a moment, you’re caught up in the warmth and familiarity, unselfconsciously rambling about a few things you still wanted to pick up for the apartment, some more decorative than functional, but damn it, it was your first apartment, you were allowed a useless knicknack or two!

He’s listening quietly, putting away the rest of his kitchen things with your familiar voice as the backdrop. For a moment, he pauses amid putting away bowls, watching you frown, ankles knocking softly against cupboard doors absentmindedly as you were trying to remember the words dish rack, since the apartment didn’t have a dishwasher, and he can’t help but smile, quietly enjoying being able to witness your distracted ramblings, rather than just hearing them over the phone. Finally you look to him, catch his smile, the fond amusement in his eyes, and your voice dies in your throat.

“What?” Softly now, you’re tone betrays your sudden selfconciousness, as if only aware that you were babbling after the fact.

“Dish rack,” he offers instead, as if to prove he was listening, and your expression lights up, delighted and thankful, already over your momentary doubts.

“Yes! That’s what we need!”

An Instagram Story from @yourinstagram:

[ID: Image One: A very close shot of Y/N’s face, their features filling the entire screen, making a distressed face. It’s captioned ‘welcome to IKEA i am afraid’, in bright red letters across their forehead.

Image Two: A photo of a large, strangely ornate dish rack in an incredibly modern display kitchen in IKEA. The photo is a little bit blurry. ‘i think this is a modern art piece??’, again in red, the text angled to align with the black, marble counter top.

Video: Y/N zooming in on the price for a pale counter top marbled with rose gold, whispering ‘Okay but why am i considering buying a marble counter top?’

Image Three: Another very close photo of Y/N’s face, this time looking distinctly unhappy, captioned, ‘every time we see a new display kitchen my housemate reminds me we’re renting’ in red, and ‘now i’m only allowed to passionately imagine remodeling our apartment’ in bright blue over their eyes.

Image Four: A photo of a man standing in the outdoor furniture section of IKEA in a black jean jacket, white t-shirt, and black jeans, holding a little, potted succulent in one hand, the other hand blurry and mid-gesture. His black nail polish is chipped. He takes up most of the frame; his head and shoulders are out of frame, and his legs below his thighs are also out of frame. There is a poll included: Should I Remodel Our Apartment? The options are: [Listen to Ur Heart!!] or [Listen to Ur Housemate 😞]

End ID.]

Within the hour, your Instagram DMs are blowing up with people demanding to know who your housemate is. Your final addition to your story for the day is a completely black image, simply with white text telling people that your housemate wants privacy so you’re not going to be telling anyone who he is.

“The internet thinks you’re hot,” you’re not sure why you feel the need to inform him of this, tone matter-of-fact. There’s still IKEA bags filled with homeware sitting on the kitchen counter in the dark while the two of you are on the sofa, you having stretched your legs out across his lap while he was playing Spiderman on the PS4, using your shins as an armrest. Not looking up from the overwhelming amount of DMs you hadn’t opened, many of which seemed surprised by how attractive the faceless picture of your new housemate was, you tried to keep your tone light and neutral; they’re right, of course, you happen to think Corpse is handsome, but you’d rather keep that to yourself. After a moment, however, you can’t help yourself, “if only they could see your face.”

“Is that a compliment or a drag?” He asks wryly at the sound of your still neutral tone, and he casts a glance at you, at your face illuminated by the television and your phone.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” this time your tone is teasing, finally looking up in time to see him shaking his head with exasperation, but still wearing a fond grin.

“Fuck you,” he snipes through a laugh, but you give in, leaning forward to press your forehead to his shoulder for a beat, a moment of connection, of solidarity, before you sit back, enjoying the quiet atmosphere, and his company. The words are different, but the tone, the teasing, the banter, its all too familiar for the both of you at this point.

It’s so easy to live with him that it almost takes you by surprise. The limited space had been a concern, but it becomes second nature to move, to exist side by side, to respect the other’s privacy and working schedule, while still looking forward to spending time together. Arguments arose, of course, most commonly about chores left for too long, but then you’re agreeing on a schedule, and agreeing to communicate, to bring issues up instead of letting them fester. At first, you worry that it would take some getting used to, but then he’s reminding you that it’s your night to wash the dishes, when you’re in the middle of editing a video, and you propose a compromise, asking if he could do them tonight if you promised to make dinner the following night to make up for it, without a second thought, and he agrees easily. It’s understanding. It’s easy. It feels as natural as breathing to fit into each other’s lives, as if you’d been there all along.

“Do you guys ever think about how Arrested Development had Charlize Theron guest star in like, six whole episodes, playing a mentally disabled woman, where the entire joke was that she was so pretty that the main character didn’t realise she was mentally disabled when he asked her to marry him? It’s pretty fucked actually, and that thought lives rent free in my head. I still, to this day, cannot believe Charlize fucking Theron agreed to that. 2005 was wild -”

In the middle of your first take of the opening for one of your videos, a few months into the living arrangement, Corpse can’t hold in his laughter where he’s editing one of his videos on the other side of your little, shared office space. Your composure cracks, and your gaze flicks from the camera, to him, lips twisting into a smile against your will.

“Dude, I told you you’re only allowed to be in here while I’m filming if you promised to be quiet,” you implored, not that you could be too mad at him. After a beat, he looked up from his own screen, trying and failing to suppress a grin.

“Charlize Theron, really?” Is his response, “Atomic Blonde, Mad Max Charlize Theron?” As if there were any others. You shrug, helpless, pulling up her IMDB page and confirming as much, going on to mention that at that point, her biggest role had been in The Italian Job. It takes him a moment to consider this before asking what your video was about. At this, however, you go quiet, looking to your screen, to the word document and bullet points sitting in front of you.

“I don’t actually have much of a plan,” you admit, “I just kind of have a lot of opinions about Arrested Development and I’m gonna kinda throw them at the wall and edit the footage down to whatever sticks,” it comes out a little sheepish, but when you look back up, you’re surprised to see his smile widening.

“Okay, alright, yeah I’ll get out of your hair,” he huffed a laugh, already pushing back from his desk, “I don’t wanna mess up your shit by laughing,” he conceded, putting his computer to sleep, absconding quickly. It’s a small gesture, but you’re grateful, and your heart swelling at the implicit compliment he’s given.

“I’ll buy you dinner as thanks,” you promise sincerely, to which he gives a snort, telling you that no thanks was necessary, “I’ll buy you dinner afterwards anyways, since it’s my night?” Your grin was all teeth.

“Deal.”

Even so, as you return to filming, you’re pretty sure you can hear him laugh through the shitty, thin walls of the apartment. Though you don’t stop your rambling, you can’t help but smile.

Tweet by @yourtwitter:

[ID: new video. housemate thought it was funny but i think he’s biased.

(Thumbnail of of George-Michael and Maeby from Arrested Development in wedding attire looking surprised, cut out against an orange background, with the words ‘Mitchell Hurwitz Explain?’ in white text over them. There is a large play button in blue and white in the middle of the thumbnail, to indicate that it is a link to a video.

1.3k comments. 2.1k retweets. 90k likes.

Link: It’s Been Fifteen Years And I Still Don’t Know Why Arrested Development Is Like That | Your Channel Name

why did season 4 & 5 double down on the creepy stuff??

twitter: @yourtwitter

🔗youtube.com)

End ID.]

Being around him becomes second nature, always in each other’s business, always aware of whatever projects the other is working on, always hyping each other up. Beds against the same wall, rooms side by side, you're practically desensitized to seeing too much, to knowing too much about one another at this point, but despite the lack of privacy, the abundance of respect goes a long way.

And okay, you’re not oblivious, not to how much you like him, nor to the fact that if you don’t keep a close eye your feelings, they’d run rampant, out of control, turn into something that could jeopardize the excellent living situation you’d found yourself in. There’s a reason he’s become your best friend, so it wouldn’t be surprising if that fondness developed into something romantic, but you’re not going to chance it. You don’t want things to get weird.

But staying platonic turns out to be pretty easy, and in time, you even find yourself relaxing into it. Contact quickly went from awkward and accidental, to casual and familiar; leaning all over each other, flopping onto the sofa, over whoever’s sitting there, draping yourselves over one when the other asked for an opinion on something they’re editing or working on. Quickly you both seem to just come to consider the other as furniture, though the implicit and fondness in it all makes your heart warm when you think about it for too long.

Despite the fact that you’ve finally started making friends and networking with other LA based creators the way you’d intended to upon first moving here, Corpse has really begun to feel like home... You don’t think too hard about that either.

“Come on, man, it’s Halloween!” Leaning in his doorway, you’re freshly showered, wrapped in a towel, and imploring him to come out with you for the night. He flicks an amused glance at you where he was sprawled out on his bed, looking at his phone.

“And?”

“I cannot believe you don’t wanna go out on the town, get all dressed up and shit,” you groaned in the face of his apathy, thumping your head against the doorframe. To this, he finally clicks his screen off, giving you his full attention.

“With what costume?” He asked flatly, amused by your exasperation.

“I’ve been asking you about this for weeks, dude, week,” your eyes widen as you look to him, “and every time you tell me maybe, but tonight’s the night; yes or no? I’m throwing together a costume, I can help throw together a costume for you. Are you in?”

“Halloween’s a shitshow, especially in LA, do you really want to go out tonight?” It’s his last ditch attempt to get you to change your mind, knowing full well that when you set your mind to something, you usually follow through.

“It’s my first Halloween in the big city, so yes, I do want to go out tonight,” you explained, “but if you wanna stay home, I respect that, okay? I’ll leave you alone,” hands raised in surrender, you concede defeat, about to head to your own room before you hear Corpse’s deep sigh, acting as though he was incredibly put upon, finally getting to his feet.

“I never said I wouldn’t go out, just that it’s a shitshow; go find yourself a costume,” but he was grinning, making his way over to the clothes piled on his chair to see if he could cobble together something resembling a costume. You celebrate in the doorway for all of five seconds before skittering to your own room, brimming with enthusiasm, eager to connect your phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the living area, blasting a playlist for you to both get ready to.

“Do you have any fake blood?” Is not what you expect to hear him call out when you’re half dressed, elbow deep in your shirts drawer.

“Why?”

“I’m being one of the dudes from Scream, I need fake blood,” he called back. It takes you a few moments to scour your belongings, but you did, in fact, have a small bottle of fake blood that had been used as part of a skit for a video a while ago.

“Yeah, lemme get a shirt on, I’ve got some,” with the fake blood aquired, you triumphantly fish your black button down from the bottom of your shirts drawer, only to frown upon seeing how wrinkled it was. How had it taken you this long to realise you need an iron? Whatever, that’s a problem for another day. With that thought, you pull the shirt on anyways, making quick work on the buttons, and grab your old, black suit jacket and the fake blood.

“Murder victim or Scooby Doo and Skeet Ulrich?” You stick your head into his bedroom, only to find it empty.

“What?” You can hear his confused laugh from the bathroom, following the sound as you explain.

“Are you being a murder victim, or are you evil Scooby Doo guy or Skeet Ulrich?” A smile plays on your lips as you approach the bathroom, it’s door wide open. He’s in front of the mirror, trying to concentrate on parting his hair, but pauses as he spots you in the mirror.

“Skeet Ulrich; Billy,” he clarifies, before his gaze flicks back to his own reflection, “evil Scooby Doo guy,” he snickers under his breath, mulling over your words. For the barest moment, you allow yourself to admire him, wondering how a simple white t-shirt and blue jeans could look so flattering on someone.

“Do you have a black tie I could possibly borrow?” You finally ask, catching yourself, and trying to find somewhere, anywhere else to look; you settle on the bottle in your hands.

“I think so?”

When you look back up, he’s looking at you in the mirror, curious, as if trying to read your expression, divine your thoughts.

“Blood?” You brighten your expression, holding up the bottle and making eye contact with him in the mirror. A smile graces his lips and he thanks you before he got back to the task at hand. Pulling on your jacket, you wait in the doorframe, double checking the fake blood was in date. Once satisfied with his hair, he turns, takes the bottle when you offer it. Then a pause; he pulls out his phone, and searches up a reference photo, taking a long few seconds to frown at it. Then, he lifts the bottle to his cheek, tipping it, as if to pour it on directly despite looking rather uncertain.

“You want a brush?” You can’t help but smirk. Thankfully he stills before any of the liquid can touch his skin, a little sheepish.

“Probably.”

There’s assorted arts and crafts supplies scattered around the house, in boxes, on shelves, a junk drawer with more than its fair share of sundry, tangentially-related craft items, so you know there’s bound to be a small paintbrush somewhere.

Returning with paintbrush in hand, you hand it over, and sit on the lip of the bathtub, mostly ready and now waiting on him for the final piece of your costume. He’s grateful for the brush, of course, but the moment he looks back at his reference photo, he frowns, and then looks, once more, to his reflection. Moving on instinct, on silent understanding, you stand. Like a whole conversation has occurred without a word being said, he reads the question, the offer in your eyes, in the mirror, and turns, holding out the brush.

“Sit,” you nod to the bathtub with a faint smile, taking the paintbrush and the fake blood. He snickers, but sits obligingly on the lip of the tub, giving a quiet, amused thanks. Taking a moment to study the reference image carefully, you sit beside him, straddling the lip of the tub to get come at him from a better angle.

“This stuff’s gonna stain your shirt,” you warn him, voice soft as you uncap the fake blood and dip the paintbrush in.

“It was ten dollars,” he shrugs, unfazed but just as quiet. At that, you nod in understanding, and lean in, paintbrush against his jaw. Occasionally you’ll look to the reference image he keeps aloft, making sure you’re getting it right, the whole world shrinking down to the two of you in this bathroom, the red of the blood glistening in the light, free hand coming to rest against him, to keep him still and secure.

“Who are you?” The moment breaks with his voice, with his hand reaching out to carefully tug at the hem of your black suit jacket, with the smile he’s trying very hard to suppress lest he ruin your work.

“John Wick,” you’re trying to remain carefully focused, until he outright smiles, and all of a sudden you realise just how close you are to him. He’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, he’s watching you, and he’s smiling in that way he sometimes does, like when he’s listening to you ramble, or when you look up from editing a video, only to realise you’d been whispering the words along, trying to figure out which take was working better, and he’s smiling at you like that. The fingers of your free hand twitch involuntarily, and all at once you’re far too aware of your body, of your proximity, of your hand in his hair, gentle where you’re holding his head still. But you don’t move.

“You okay?” His smile is shifting to a look of concern; he leans his head back just enough for you to feel the pressure against your hand, to try and bring you back from wherever your mind had gone, to try and ground you.

What’s different now? You’ve been this close to him before, had little regard for each other’s personal space for months now without feeling your heart beat in your throat. Focus.

Blinking quickly, trying to clear your mind, you take a deep breath, flashing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you get back to your work. But you don’t actually answer him. What would you say? It doesn’t seem to matter, however, because the moment he feels the paintbrush against his jaw, he lets his gaze drift around the room, away from you, tapping his foot to the music. Once his cheek is done, you move your hand to rest at the back of his neck, gently nudging his jaw with the handle of the paintbrush, which he rightly takes as his cue to tip his head to the side.

“Thanks,” a single word leaves him, quiet and appreciative, spoken into the golden light of your tiny bathroom. It all feels too close, too quiet, too intimate.

“Any time,” you breathe, though it comes out distracted, desperately attempting to stay focused on the task at hand, and not at how you feel like you’re burning at the contact. But he can grin now, without fear of ruining your work, and the sight is somehow cathartic, like it’s telling you he doesn’t feel moment the way you are, like he knows the world beyond this one room hasn’t disappeared like it has in your mind, like he’s taking this all at face value. So you smile in return, pausing to dip your brush in the fake blood again, breaking your concentration for the barest moment, a moment to breathe, “you look good,” you tell him, because it’s true, though you’re not quiet sure why you said it out loud.

“You’re one to talk, all fuckin’ black suit,” he mutters with a smirk, gazing at the wall, something unexpected and strangely appreciative in his voice, in the slight grin he wears. These words will play on a loop in your head for a very long time, of this you are certain, able to form a good response.

“Thanks for agreeing to come out with me,” you say instead, finally adding the final touches by his collar.

“As if I’d let you go out on Halloween in LA on your own,” comes his response, surprising you enough that you sit back, concern written all over your face.

“I don’t want you to go if you don’t want to; you shouldn’t be going just for my sake,” and you reach out to flick the last splatter of fake blood against his collar before you can finally move out of his space, out of the moment that had held you captive.

“Hey, no,” he backtracks quickly, reaches out, snatches the hem of your jacket and pulls you back, “I’m happy to go, I just... I wasn’t expecting to.”

You take time to digest his words, the implications, offering him the bottle of fake blood, telling him he can use the rest on his shirt. Instead of stepping up to the mirror, he steps into the bathtub, which confuses you until he starts liberally applying fake blood down the left of his shirt, and the excess falls harmlessly, waiting to be easily rinsed away when he was done. Smart.

“It’s cute you’re worried about me,” is how you finally answer, aiming for teasing as he offers you the now-empty bottle. When you meet his gaze, however, he’s wearing an expression that practically screams ‘yeah, fucking obviously’. Tonight is really not doing great things for those feelings of yours you keep trying to keep in check.

You pull the hairdryer out from under the skin in an attempt to dry his shirt faster.

It’s criminal how good he looks covered in blood. Damn it. Once dry, he leaves, and you take to frowning at yourself in the mirror, feeling like something was missing from your own costume, but not quite sure what.

“Keanu’s got a solid, black beard as John Wick, doesn’t he?” You finally put your finger on what had been bothering you, what had been missing, when you catch sight of Corpse returning in the reflection of the mirror, the black tie he’d promised you in his hand. After a moment of thought, he makes a noncommittal sound, but nods, and holds out the tie expectantly. You take it, putting it around your neck on instinct, holding both ends in your hands before you come to a disappointing realisation, “Man, I don’t remember how to tie one of these, it’s been too long.” Without another word, he takes the tie and obligingly begins folding the thin material, tying it for you in a moment that feels altogether too intimate and familiar, applying the same amount of focus as you’d given to painting blood onto him. So you talk, fill the silence with words to give your brain something else to focus on that’s not him, so close, again.

“How long have we lived here? Like several - almost nine months now? And tonight’s the first night I’ve worn a shirt that needs ironing - we don’t have an iron, by the way -” you’re rambling, but at least this time you’re aware of it, this time you mean to.

“Mascara?” Corpse offers out of the blue, eyes still on the tie, which snaps you out of your babbling. In the face of your obvious confusion, his hands still and he looks to your face, then deliberately down to your chin, as if considering, “to make you look more like him, fix up the whole beard situation,” then is gaze is fixed back on his hands, back on the tie, as he tries to remember where he was up to.

“Wouldn’t it look kind of shitty?”

“Up to you; it’s your face,” he says amicably, nimble fingers moving, reaching up to pop the collar of your black dress shirt, tucking the tie beneath it, and flattening the collar again. His hands are on your shoulders for a second too long, thumbs beneath the downturned edges of your nice, black dress shirt, and you give a faint thanks, hand coming up to rest on the knot of the tie as you turn away. His grip drops and you meet your own gaze in the mirror, expression unrecognisable, even too yourself, confusing and far away and why was tonight so different?

The knot of the tie, like a visual representation of the lump in your throat, grounds you as you hold it, bring you back as your his words, his touch, the smile he gave you, they echo through your mind and chip away at your delicately balanced self control. The little, rational part of your mind is still lamenting that you’re an asshole for even entertaining any nonplatonic thoughts, reminding you insistently that they’re a slippery slope, but the smile in his voice - all fuckin’ black suit. It would be weird to ask what he’d meant, what that smile, that tone, that look when you catch him looking at you for a second too long, what any of it meant, but if you’re wrong, if you’re imagining it or - it would be weird... Right?

“You’ll look cool as hell either way.” Beside where you’d been zoning out, caught up in your thoughts, Corpse is looking at himself in the mirror, fusing with his own hair as it refused to sit right despite the gel he’d applied.

And you’re back in reality, in the moment, slowly unfreezing as you finish getting ready, leaving his space and this moment in time so you don’t become stuck there.

Ultimately you decide against using mascara on your jaw, knowing it would be too much of a hassle at the end of the night, but he was right, and you still looked cool as hell in spite of that.

Corpse does, however, agree to be your cameraman for the impromtu photoshoot you have in the alley beside your building, showing off your costume for an Instagram post you’ll make tomorrow morning. Or afternoon, depending on when you wake up.

“One more,” he calls out, waves you over, confusing you for all of five seconds before he’s got an arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you in for a final photo, this time with him as well. It’s a little blurry, but your surprised smile is joyous, bathed in the rose gold of the streetlight, as is Corpse’s, toothy and sincere and affectionate, leaning into you, squished together to fit in frame. When you send it to him at his request, he grins brightly at it, “fuck you did a good job on that blood,” he mutters, and quite against your will, your heart sinks, realising that must be what he’s smiling at.

“It’s a nice photo,” you keep your tone light, “I think I’m gonna have to print it out and frame it,” you’re mostly joking as you pocket your phone, setting out from the alley in the direction of town. As you exit, however, Corpse casts you an amused that you miss, a few steps ahead of him, though you don’t miss hearing it in his voice.

“Go for your life; it’d be pretty funny if the first photo of us we put up around the apartment is from Halloween.”

For a moment, you’re frowning, considering, trying to scan through your memory; that couldn’t be right, surely you had a photo of the two of you up together in the apartment somewhere... When you voice this, however, his answer actually surprises you.

“It’s the first photo where you can see both of our faces at all,” something about the way he says it is careful, and you’re not quite sure why, but something about that catches in your mind, turning fond.

“Guess I’ll definitely have to frame it then,” you look over your shoulder at him, wearing a smirk, “delete all digital copies; that’s top secret information, a classified document, only one allowed in the world.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” his eyes are on the sky, at the two or three starts visible through the light pollution, but the grin he wears betrays how endeared he is by your antics.

It’s easy at first, to lose yourself in the lights, on the dancefloor, sticky, a world of neon and garbage, shared breath in cramped clubs, amongst the costumes like a modern day masquerade. Like something out of a movie, everything’s always moving, almost too fast for you to keep up, for your mind to keep up, for your mind to remember the turmoil had been going through, alongside your heart, only hours ago.

Happily tipsy, you flirt with strangers, letting them shower you and your costume with compliments as you happily respond in kind, dragged out for a dancer, each touch feeling unfamiliar, feeling wrong, but you push that feeling down, willing yourself to connect to the frantic and freeing energy the dancers around you were buzzing with.

It’s easy, at first, until you catch a glimpse of chatting and smiling with a girl decked out like the lead singer of an 80s hair metal band, and it’s as though you’ve been splashed with ice water.

The cute boy dressed like a sexy nurse that you’d been talking to asks if you’re alright, bringing you out of your thoughts with his gentle hand on your hip. Without thinking, you ask if you can kiss him. He’s enthusiastic, all lips and teeth and tongue and so eager to have his hands on your hips, your ass, your back, your sides, and you think that maybe maybe you were just touch starved, that maybe this will make you feel better, feel something that isn’t like you’ve just been winded, that isn’t an ice-cold sense of unreasonable jealousy.

Yes, you kiss him back, holding his face, carding your fingers through his hair, eyes closed, mind searching for something familiar to find in him, to latch onto, to make this feel right instead of so terribly, unexplainably wrong. But he smells too much like sweet cologne that you’re not used to, and is unfamiliarly cool to the touch when you realise you miss Corpse’s warmth - Fuck.

Then your phone buzzes. You break from this man, this stranger, gasping for air, stumbling back like you can’t quite believe what you’ve done, a strange kind of guilt surging through you, coming to sit heavy in your gut. When you look over, the girl is by the bar, but your housemate is nowhere to be seen.

“Everything okay, babe?” The sexy nurse is all wide-eyed and sincere, concerned like he’d done something wrong. You look up from your phone in a sudden guilty panic, apologies tumbling from your lips, though he waves you off with an easy smile, assuring you that what happens on Halloween stays on Halloween. Whatever he’s implying, you’re pretty sure it’s nowhere close to the situation you found yourself in, but at least he’s not mad or disappointed when you flee from the building.

[if you’re going home with him idk text me at some point when you’re at his place to lemme know you’re safe??]

[im heading home]

Suddenly on the street, amid the costumed crowd crawling from one club to the next, stumbling and laughing and clinging to one another, you find yourself momentarily terrified of being recognized, knowing that if you called out to Corpse, he too might be recognised, which was the last thing in the world either of you wanted. All you knew was that you needed to find him, needed to make sure he knew - he knew what, exactly?

“Billy Fucking Loomis!” You holler at the top of your lungs as a last resort, shoving your way through the crowd, getting strange looks for your frantic nature, as you headed in the direction of your apartment.

“From Scream?” A pretty girl dressed up as Barbie stops you, in all shiny, pink, plastic, she’s a little tipsy with a gaggle of friends who seem surprised, seem a little embarrassed that she’s stopped at all.

“My friend’s dressed like him,” you elaborate, a little breathless. Taking this in stride, she looks you over for a moment, considering, before making the split second decision to help, hollering Billy Fucking Loomis at the top of her lungs too, much to her friends’ collective embarrassment. She didn’t seem to care, standing her ground, and looping her arm through yours while her friends tried to tug her along, apologising to you for being a bother. You, however, couldn’t be more grateful, heart swelling at this stranger’s kindness, yelling alongside her until -

“You’re so dramatic,” you hear a familiar affectionate exasperation after a short while of calling, and Corpse emerges from the crowd. The sweet Barbie’s face lit up at the sight of him, reaching out with her free hand to pet his cheek.

“Billy Loomis! You were right!” She grins at you, sounding a little dazed, a little tipsy, but glad to have found him, before she looks Corpse in the eye, her tone turning forthright, “you did a good job, Billy.”

“Thankyou, Barbie,” he says, smiling in a way that was kindly bemused, to which she lights up, thrilled, but finally realises that her friends have left her; you thank her for her help, and she assures you it was no trouble, before disappearing into the crowd towards the club you’d just left.

“You called?” Corpse’s tone was gently expectant, and suddenly you find yourself at a loss for words, feeling foolish for panicking; you could have just gone home quietly, it’s not like he wouldn’t be there.

“The buddy system,” your voice catches up before your mind does, words spilling from your lips, “as if I’d let you leave Halloween in LA on your own,” you hear yourself parroting his earlier words back at him, thankful to see the tense set of his shoulders ease. Okay, yeah, when you hear yourself say it out loud, that makes sense.

“You’re so dramatic,” his accompanying eye roll and sigh was betrayed by his outright grin, as he turned to head back through the crowd towards home. You follow, hot on his heels, refusing to let the point drop now that you’d committed to it.

“So you’re allowed to worry about me but I’m not allowed to worry about you?”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he shrugs easily, as if it was a simple truth and not a terrible double standard.

“That’s so not true! What if you got stabbed?”

“You think I’m going to be stabbed on Halloween?”

“Anything could happen on Halloween,” the words leave your mouth before you really think about them,but he goes all quiet and contemplative without a real response, “you can’t stop me from worrying about you.” You huff, making sure he could still hear it above the noise of the city, the cars, the crowd all around you. When you glance at him, if only to gauge his reaction, you catch the tail end of a smile on his lips.

“What about your sexy nurse?” He changes the topic quickly, and to your credit, the dismissive tone you take, and the way you stick your nose in the air manage to not betray the fact that not five minutes ago, you’d been panicking about the fact that he’d seen you kissing a stranger.

“Harmless fun, he understands that what happens on Halloween stays on Halloween,” you say without much thought, “and like I said, I couldn’t just let you walk home alone.”

At least this time he laughs.

And back at the apartment, you find you’re still buzzing from the night, even as you pull off your John Wick ensemble and changing into the most comfortable clothes you own. Corpse is in the shower when you emerge from your room, his tie in your hand, so you flop onto the sofa, turning on the TV.

Scream isn’t on Netflix, but John Wick is, and you’re ten minutes in, barely aware of how you’re compulsively wrapping, and re-wrapping the tie around your hand, when you hear the shower turn off, and he emerges a few minutes later, haloed by the steam and the golden light from the bathroom, hair towel-dried, and bright pink stain on his cheek. The moment you spot it, you actually wince and feel like a fool for not considering that the fake blood could possibly stain skin too.

“I know,” he says with flat resignation, “good thing you’re the only person who gets to see my face.” He huffs a self-deprecating laugh, but you still can’t help but apologise, offering his tie like it’s compensation. Taking the tie, he assures you he’s not actually bothered, and heads into his room.

Tonight had brought so much more than you’d been expecting, and you were still trying to wrap your head around it all, barely paying attention to the movie, barely even registering when Corpse rejoins you, sprawling out on the sofa beside you.

“They didn’t have Scream, but they have Scream 2 if you wanted to watch that,” the words come out distracted, barely putting any thought into them as your mind was still a million miles away, attempting to place all rogue feelings from the night into the boxes they’d metaphorically escaped from. Corpse didn’t seem to care about the movie one way or the other, eyes glassy as he absentmindedly rubbed at the pink stain on his jaw.

“Some of the stuff that happened tonight... it’s still not exactly making sense to me,” he says carefully, tone neutral. It brings you out of your thoughts, anxiety spiking in your gut as you make a noise of confusion, “I texted you just after I left the building, right, and you managed to catch up to me only a few minutes later, which, honestly surprised me,” these are all general observations, so why did it feel like he was working up to something? Shifting to a more upright position, he’s looking at you now, all bright-eyed and alert, “you know you could have just caught up with me back here, you didn’t have to yell through the crowd for me.”

“It’s not like I yelled your actual name,” you muttered, keeping your eyes focused on the TV, not quite sure if you liked where he was going with this.

“Which I appreciate,” he acknowledges, but then takes pause, hesitates, “actually it’s nice that you, like you said, you worry about me. You don’t have to, but it’s sweet.” You dip your head to him, mostly to confirm that that was just as true now as when you’d said it half an hour ago, however you can still feel a but coming, and he does not disappoint, “but you must have just bolted from that poor, hot nurse, and he seemed pretty into you, just to make sure you caught up with me, on the off chance that I get stabbed on my way back.”

“Sorry I don’t want you to get stabbed?” Tone defensive, you can feel yourself growing antsy and flustered as he puts together the pieces you’d really hoped he’d ignore, “your point?” Finally you look at him, at his almost cat-like smile, the way his eyes are shining in the light of the television; it feels like you’ve walked into a trap.

“No real point,” he shrugs after a beat, letting the moment drop, finally looking to the TV, letting it drop. A few moments of quiet follow. You can’t look away from hom, wading through the implications of his words, his tone, that smile, like you’d been caught red handed without anything incriminating leaving your mouth. There’s a tension in the room, you can’t be the only one feeling it, but you have no idea what’s going through his mind so each breath you take feels dangerous.

“Glad you felt so strongly about the buddy system,” he breaks the silence, sitting back on the sofa, so carefully casual, “I mean, I know it’s not my place or whatever, but part of me ’s glad you didn’t go home with someone else,” in an instant, everything in your mind changes, and you look back on the night with absolute clarity. He leans his head back against the sofa, turning to you, smiling with almost lazy confidence, like he can read every thought going through your mind, like he knows every stray, traitorous thought you’d had about him, like he’s just taunting you, waiting for you to finally catch up, to make the first move, “probably selfish, considering how good you looked -”

Mind a mess of feelings and desires, you close the space between you, kissing him hard, moving together, into each other’s space almost desperately. So terrified for so long to want this, to want him, there’s a part of your heart, your mind, that is overwhelming relieved, content and sated, drunk on the feeling of him holding you close.

“I just really don’t want this to get weird or complicated,” you warned him, having found yourself in his lap, arms around his neck, “if things don’t...” but you swallow that fear instead of saying it out loud, “I like living here. With you.” You tell him, as serious as you can muster, and his eyebrows raise, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

“It won’t get weird,” he tells you, just falling short where he tries to be solemn, “just appreciating the fact that my best friend is incredibly hot, and taking advantage of the fact that we live in close proximity, nothing complicated,” which is a whole new set of words for you to process, but honestly, shoving your current feelings into that same box for the time being is easy. If he doesn’t consider this romantic, then that works for you, no broken hearts, nothing getting weird or complicated. Before, you’d been in each other’s space more than most people would probably be comfortable with already, so this is just a new level of familiarity.

“That works for me,” you smirk, leaning in, lips on his throat, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive juncture where his throat meets his shoulder, before adding, “anything can happen on Halloween.”

An Instagram post from @yourinstagram:

[ID: Three images. All three are of Y/N in a full black suit, with black shirt, shoes, and tie to match, against a nondescript grey, brick wall.

The first image has Y/N with one hip cocked, looking at the camera with an eyebrow raised, one hand behind them, while the other holds a yellow pencil almost like it’s a cigarette.

The second image has Y/N with one hand in their pocket, the other coming up as if to scratch their nose, looking at something to the left.

The third image is of Y/N smiling widely, as if mid-laugh, posture relaxed while they’re fixing on of their cuffs, looking at whoever is behind the camera.

End ID.]

Caption: the one you send to kill the fkn boogeyman. (swipe for john wick in the au where the dog doesn’t die)

📷: my housemate, Billy Loomis from Scream (1996). edit: no i don’t live with skeet ulrich wtf it was my housemate’s halloween costume 😂😂😂

“Why is your mattress nicer than mine?” You ask amid a yawn the next morning, stretched out comfortably on your side in Corpse’s bed. The bed’s usual occupant gives a half smile at the door where he’d just come back from the bathroom.

“No idea,” he smirks, sitting on the edge of the bed, taking a drink of water from the bottle he keeps by his bedside, pale morning light cutting through the sliver between his blinds and across his thighs.

“Now I know,” attention caught by that single stripe of light, you reach out, palm coming to rest on his thigh as your fingers splay out against him in the light, I might have to trade beds with you,” you mutter, though it seems like an afterthought, fingers tapping an inconsistent tattoo against him in the light.

“As if that’s the only option you have,” tone sarcastic and knowing, his voice finally draws your attention away, back to him, to see him watching your hand until your fingers still. He looks back, gaze meeting yours; he offers you the bottle. You blink quickly at the implication in his words, but take it.

“If you start actually seeing someone, you’re going to need a bed of your own,” you point out, taking a large drink of water. For a moment, you both ruminate on this, and once you’ve recapped the bottle and handed it back, he leans back against you, horizontal across the bed and your hips.

“Well if that ever becomes a problem while we’re living together, we can fight to the death for my bed,” he concedes, grinning up at the roof, and then to you. Something tightens in your chest at his words.

“I think I can deal with sharing for now,” you can’t help yourself, poking him in the side, mischievous grin of your own twisting the corners of your lips, though the look in your eyes in undeniably fond.

“Deal with,” he mutters, clearly just playing at being offended by your wording, squirming at your prod, but after a beat, the room is filled is a pleased silence. It’s broken quickly by your snort of laughter, asking if he’s comfortable as you wriggle your hips beneath him, and he, acting as though simple movement is a chore in itself, heaves a sigh and flops down beside your proper. There’s something blooming in your chest, equal parts unfamiliar and hopeful, but you both drift off until well into the afternoon.

When you wake, he’s no longer by your side, but the television is making muffled noises you can hear through the wall, a video game you can’t place from sound alone, and you luxuriate in bed for a few more minutes before getting to your feet. There’s your clothes, on his bedroom floor, the sight of which has your breath catching in your throat, a feeling that persists even as you pull them back on, even as you leave his room, even as you see him on the sofa playing videogames like nothing happened.

It’s like floating through a hazy unreality, not sure if everything that happened happened last night, or if this is all some pleasant dream.

“You winning?” Even to your own ears, your voice sounds far away.

“Hard to tell at this stage,” Corpse answers easily, like it’s the most normal conversation in the world, still focused entirely on the game, that even now, as you see it, as you watch him play it, you can’t place. Is it new? Maybe your processing’s just a bit off today, a lot has happened in a very short space of time.

You leave him to his videogame, and you fix yourself lunch before heading into the office to work on the script for your next video; a critical analysis of the colour design of all the movies in the John Wick series. John Fucking Wick, you had chosen that costume specifically because you were working on the video and it was at the forefront of your mind, but now it’s all you can do to spend a full twenty minutes looking at Keanu Reeves face at the top of your working document. It just feels like the cherry on top, like you’re expecting for the actor himself to knock on your front door at any minute, to offer a candid interview, a handshake, an acknowledgement of his character being partially responsible for you sleeping with your best friend. Because of course Keanu Reeves would know that already. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise you.

Finally, you start typing.

“Batteries died in my remote and there’s none in the junk draw, I’m running down to the store to get some; you want anything?” Corpse pops his head into the office when you’d thankfully managed to focus on your work. Holding up a single finger, your intense gaze leveled at your left monitor where John Wick was currently killing his way through the Red Circle club, you typed out the final line of note you’d been working on, and pause the video. Pulling off your earphones, you make a noise of confusion, and he repeats his question from where he’d been waiting patiently in the doorframe.

After a beat, you ask for a drink, and he nods in agreement. When he comes back, however, you’re leaning back in your chair, arms crossed as you glare at your monitors, John Wick’s tied up, lit by gold flood lights in a scene that’s otherwise greens, greys, and reds. You document is on the right, little typing cursor blinking demandingly at you.

“I hate this movie,” you tell him, unprompted as he sets the drink down beside your keyboard, “thanks.”

“Everything okay?” He asks carefully, looking to the movie, and then skimming your notes. He sets the drink down, and you thank him absentmindedly, mind on your work.

“There’s a mirror maze in the next one, why did I think this would be a good idea?” You groaned, “like I knew there was a lot to cover, but fuck; I’m dying, dude,” a defeated little sigh escapes you, leaning your temple against Corpse’s hip where he’d been standing by you, his hand resting on your head in solidarity.

“Anything I can do to help?” He asks, and you hesitate about just dismissing him, because actually, perhaps... In a move that almost seems to surprise you both, you stand abruptly, pushing your chair back, hands coming to fist in the collar of his shirt.

“If you wanna help distract me, I’d greatly appreciate it,” you’re gauging if this was okay, if this was how things were now between you, with your voice low, no way for you intent to be misconstrued. In answer, he kisses you hard, taking your face in his hands, breaking only to murmur ‘absolutely’ against your lips in a way that has a shiver of anticipation running down your spine.

“I’m never going to get any work done again, am I?” It’s dark outside, by the time you get back to your script and not particularly looking forward to it. You’re half tempted to just crawl back into his bed and fall asleep there, call it a day.

“Any time you wanna be rescued from your work, say the word,” he actually winks at you where he’s perched on the arm of the sofa, just in sweatpants - is this really the reality you’d lucked into?

“The option’s always there for you too,” you assured, grin growing wider, “there’s two of us in this, I’m not just fucking myself here,” reminding him so bluntly actually gets him to laugh, “just keep talking to me dude, let me know where you’re at and what you’re up for, and this will be simple and mutually beneficial,” you smirk.

“Deal,” he’d nodding, before tipping over to fall onto the sofa, legs hanging over the arm, “go finish your script, I’m not going anywhere,” and the easy, teasing tone of his voice has that unfamiliar yet hopeful warmth stirring in your chest.

Now that your nerves have settled, and you’ve made peace with this unexpected reality you’d found yourself in, it feels as though you’re more focused than you have been in a long time when you sit back down at your computer. The drink he’d gotten you has warmed on your desk in the time that’s passed, but you don’t really care, relaxed, happy and ready to work.

Later that night, or well, in the wee hours of the morning when you finally get to bed after stopping halfway through your analysis on the second movie, you realise you’re not quite sure where to go from here. Corpse had gone to bed a few hours ago, you weren’t sure if you were allowed to crawl into bed with him. His mattress was really nice, but it feels different from everything that’s been established so far; there were sill boundaries you needed to discuss. you sleep in your own bed, still not sure what boundaries they were yet. He doesn’t comment on it the following day, nor does he seem bothered.

Still not quite sure what it all means, and how it all works, you keep mostly to yourself for a few days, expecting him to make some sort of move since you’d been the last to initiate anything. Casual closeness and kind words aside, nothing really happens, and you start to fear the first day had been a fluke.

“Did I do something wrong?” Over dinner, four full days after Halloween, you finally voice your concern while watching Bojack Horseman. When you look to Corpse, however, tearing your gaze from the screen, he’s looking back at you with confusion.

“No? What? No.”

“We haven’t...” your voice trails off, leaving the way you’re gesturing emphatically between the both of you to fill in the blank. His eyes follow the movement, before he looks to his dinner, frowning, thoughtful, “did I do something wrong? Are you not as into it as you thought you’d be? I wouldn’t be upset if -”

“No!” He’s quick to clarify, his smile not entirely hiding his vague chagrin, “I just want to make sure you’re doing what you want to do.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I mean, I did tell you that I’d keep you informed as to how I’m going; did you really think after everything that happened, I’d want you less?” You couldn’t help the smirk that graced your lips, setting your mostly empty bowl on the ground, “I just didn’t want to seem,” after a beat of hesitation, your smirk turns to something more honest as you admit; “greedy.”

“Greedy?” Like the concept amused him, like of all the things you could be worrying about, that was it?

“I’d already asked once, I figured it was your turn,” and though you laugh, it’s a little too honest.

“I told you, just ask,” he responds easily, lightly. He’s looking at you like that again, expression fond but pupils blown wide and you know you need to finish this conversation up quick, because you’ve both missed out on three days because you didn’t think to communicate -

“Same goes for you, I told you that.”

“You really mean that?” He sounds a little hesitant, to which you can’t help but smile at the strangely gentlemanly nature it implied about him. Shifting closer until there was no more space on the sofa between you two, you take his own empty bowl, putting it beside your own.

“I mean it,” you murmured.

“So instead of assuming the worst like we were kind of doing for the past week, we just ask,” he’s turned to face you now, one hand gripping your thigh securely, the other coming to gently lift your chin to look him in the eye. It’s as if he delights in the sudden flustered surprise written all over your face at the dramatic shift in tone, in mood, excitement flooding through your veins, coiling in your belly, “sound good?”

“Sounds good,” you agree, soft, and he’s cupping your cheek, smiling at you with a look that’s so affectionate it kind of takes your breath away.

“So this is me, asking; we can go back to Bojack if that’s what you want -”

“No fucking way, are you kidding me?”

It takes him almost a full ten seconds to stop laughing in order to kiss you, not that you entirely mind, knowing that you can make him laugh is one of you quiet joys in life.

It’s frightfully easy for you to adapt to this new normal, to draw comfort from the warmth of his touch, to feel your heart grow warm with his lips, his smile against your skin, feeling more at home in his bed than in your own. More often than not, you wake up beside him, even when nothing had really happened the night before, it starts to feel weird to wake up alone. In the moments before his eyes open, before his gaze meets yours, before reality finds you, you pretend this is more than it is, like it could be your happy ending. Too hopeful by half, your tired heart reminds you, so you yawn and stretch and sit up out of your fantasy, into reality.

Sometimes you wonder what the difference really is, because with every day that passes, it starts to looks more and more like just a relationship, the way he looks at you, the touches that you share, they may have been platonic at first, but there’s something so intimate, so gentle, things that happen without you even thinking about them. When you call him over to proofread a paragraph, he touches your face in a soft, wordless greeting, mostly focused on your screen, but instinct takes you over and you’re quick to press a kiss to his palm, his fingertips against your jaw. Or when you’re washing the dishes after dinner, he’ll drop a kiss on your shoulder, by your temple, as thanks. A kiss on the forehead is to be expected, if one is going to bed earlier than the other. The domesticity of it all is suffocating and wonderful and so incredibly frustrating.

Three tweets. One from @yourtwitter, one from @corpse_husband, and one from @toomanyfeelingsforyt .

[ID: @yourtwitter posted two images of themselves in stereotypical e-style makeup; eyeliner hearts on their cheeks, carefully overdone blush and highlighter, sharp winged liner, lipgloss, and a black and white striped, knitted sweater. They are lit in a pale white light, while the wall behind them is lit by a LED strip light set to purple. The images are similar, with only slightly different poses and expressions, the first looking off to the left, contemplative. In the second they’re looking directly into the camera, a single eyebrow raised.

Caption: housemate’s at the store post forbidden procrastination makeup.

@corpse_husband retweeted Y/N’s tweet with the caption: what - and i mean this with complete sincerity - the fuck.

@toomanyfeelingsforyt commented on @corpse_husband’s retweet: @corpse_husband @yourtwitter coming in clutch with the REAL most ambitious crossover of 2019. not what i expected this tuesday afternoon but two very weird parts of my little simping heart are happy. now i want a hour long video of y/n analysing the creepypatas corpse has read

End ID.]

Around the end of December, most of your family is given time off from work, as if corporations in America think the whole world stops spinning for Christmas; whatever, it’s a good enough excuse as any to see your family. Both you and Corpse are heading home for a few weeks, but there’s a strangely hollow feeling in your chest in the days that lead up to the departure. It won’t be long, not really, only be a few hours away, you can visit each other if you really miss each other that much.

“It’s not long, only two weeks,” your voice is a murmur in the morning light, curtains drawn but golden light still leaving some of the bed sunwarmed despite the Winter chill. Bags already packed, and clothes waiting in a neat pile on his dresser, you know rationally you should get up, you should go.

Corpse is quiet, carefully tracing your features with his fingertips, feather-light touches against your brow, your lips, the bridge of your nose. There’s a smile at the edge of his lips, so focused on geographically mapping your face through touch that he register that you’re speaking, but not what you’re saying.

“If you’re desperate, you can always come visit, crash on the sofa,” tone still light, you don’t dare raise your voice above a whisper for fear of shattering his almost perfect moment. Turning, you rest on your side to face him properly, and his smile widens just a little, fingers gliding delicately along your cheekbones, to ghost around the bottom, then the shell of your ear. As you consider your own words, however, you frown, only to feel his touch against the creases in your brow, “actually, I’ll already be sleeping on the sofa, my bed is here,” you jab your thumb at the wall, to your own bed in the room next door, “I’ll find you a camping mattress or something,” looking back to him with a grin, you watch the way his eyes follow his fingers as they trail to your temple, and then up across your hairline.

“How tempting,” his voice drips with sarcasm, though the smile hadn’t vanished from the corners of his lips, in fact, it grew wider. There’s a response on the tip of your tongue, a kneejerk reaction to the tender moment, to break it, to stop it in its tracks before your heart gets ideas above its station, but just this once, you let yourself breathe, to take in the moment and enjoy the reality you’d found yourself in.

But you can’t look him in his eyes, because in this moment, this single, saccharine morning, you’re terrified as to what you’d see there, what they’d mean for your poor, still quietly pining heart. How is it so easy for him? How can he look at you like that and not even entertaining something more than just being best friends who sleep together? For just a moment, a quiet shame clings to your heart for wanting more than all that he’d already given so freely.

So you sit up, out of his space, out of the golden bubble of your fantasy, and it’s suddenly so cold. It’s a fight to go against your instincts, to not lay back with him, but it’s a fight you win, so you stand, and begin to get dressed for the day. He doesn’t stop you. His gaze is on the ceiling, hands behind his head while he’s wearing a smile so content it makes your breath catch in your throat when you glance at him. In this moment, he is serene and perfect, and you want nothing more than to go back to bed.

Everything you want in this moment is everything you know you’re not allowed to have, and it’s all wrapped up in your best fucking friend, stretched out in the bed you’ve come to share, sleepy smile and messy hair, who looks at you with so much god damn affection in his eyes.

“Drive safe,” he tells you, “shoot me a text when you get there,” it’s such a simple phrase, full of so much implicit care that it almost stings, and all he’s doing is sitting up to drink some water as you hover in the doorway.

Acting on instinct, you cross the room to him quickly, taking his face in your hands and kissing him, heart in your throat, tenderness upon your lips, I love you, you dumbass, I love you, echoing through your mind, terrified to say the words out loud. He’s surprised for a moment, but kisses you back, one hand still holding his waterbottle, the other finding it’s place on your waist. For one glorious moment, it’s all unspoken intention, your hands in his hair so desperate for him to hear what you want to say without speaking a word.

There’s something new and electric about this kiss for both of you, it takes your breath away when you step back, eyes wide with shock at the sheer audacity you didn’t realise you possessed. Even he doesn’t seem to know what to do, flushed, just staring at you, unreadable.

“That- uh, that was -” you stumble through your words, feeling more foolish for every moment that passed, “see you in two weeks,” you blurted out, “sorry.” And with that, you absconded from the apartment altogether, leaving him in his bewildered silence. Half an hour into your drive, he texts to ask if everything’s okay. You respond with a single thumbs-up emoji.

Space will be good for you, you consider, blasting your favourite playlist as you zip down the familiar roads home, it will help you reset, recenter yourself.

Day by day, your feelings are settling; the constant exposure to him had been overwhelming you, you’d decided. Perhaps, when you get back, you’d have to call it quits on the whole ‘benefits’ part of your friendship, because before that, before Halloween, you were doing fine. But some little part of you hisses that it’s not a crime to want, that he’d kissed you back that morning you’d left, how alive you’d felt and the look in his eyes, bright surprise and affection, and how do you know he doesn’t -?

What a dangerous, double-edged sword you carry with you, not wanting to assume he wants what you want, but so clearly assuming that he doesn’t. But you argue that one is preparing you to be let down, the other is giving you hope that may then break your heart. Better to be safe than sorry, right?

At first you’re okay, it feels like your mind is settling with each day that passes, rational thoughts outweighing the desires that you’ve thought of as irrational for so long. Messages between you and Corpse are as light as they’ve always been, neither of you bringing up what had happened in those moments before you’d left the apartment. It feels like it did in the beginning, up until the early hours of the morning, camped out on the sofa with your grin lit only by the glow of your phone screen, struggling to stay awake but not wanting to miss a thing. If people ask why you’re yawning for an inordinate amount of time the next day, all you do is shrug, and say something dismissive about your job often meaning you’ll have fan interactions at weird times.

With those around you in person, you keep things light, holding conversations with those who think they know you well, who don’t have the faintest idea why you get that faraway look in your eye, who will turn around and make a remark about when you’re going to get a real job, and your blood boils.

No-one around you understands.

You miss Corpse for more reasons than you’d initially thought. As your first week home comes to an end, you hit a point of diminishing returns with your feelings, and slow but surely, with the snide remarks around you and a gaggle of people who used to know you and like to think they still do, missing him is like an itch, like you can feel something hollow, something missing, just behind your stenum.

Running away from your feelings did not appear to work at all like you’d hoped, and much of your second week away was spent devising increasingly ridiculous plans to deal with your stupid crush on your housemate who you’re kind of in love with. The best you can come up with is moving out so you don’t have to be constantly in close proximity to him. It hadn’t gone beyond an idle idea, no thought to put into the logistics of what it would mean, not when your heart wasn’t truly behind it.

So you type out [i love you] but delete it before you can even finish the message. So you type out [i think we should go back to being just friends], and feel selfish for not sending it. So you type out [i miss you], and your finger hovers over the send button but you can’t bring yourself to press it. Before everything had happened, before things got messy, before you’d even moved in together, you’d been able to send it without a second thought. It’s natural to miss your best friend, but it’s too messy now, there’s too much left to interpretation. So you delete it too.

Two tweets from @yourtwitter:

[ID: @yourtwitter: SO EXCITED to be heading back to my little apartment, ive been FEVERISHLY writing video ideas on my phone wishing id brought my laptop

@yourtwitter: also WEIRD that this is like the longest the housemate and i have been apart for since moving in together. 2 weeks. miss that mf. also miss sleeping in a bed and not on a sofa 😅

End ID.]

You knew you’d be the first one back, but that doesn’t make having the apartment to yourself for a whole day any less weird. It’s as thought you’re a ghost, haunting the lift you once lived; you take a bath but don’t remember how to properly enjoy it, buy enough food to make yourself dinner but still end up ordering takeout, and watch TV without really registering any of it. For a while there you consider unpacking your suitcase, only to decide against it, proceeding to go back and forth on the decision before going to bed, stomach in knots about seeing Corpse again tomorrow. Sleeping in your own bed, you’d thought you’d gotten used to sleeping alone over the past two weeks, but it’s different here.

This is the exact definition of weird and complicated, and you just miss being able to spend time with your best friend without worrying.

The next morning comes after a night of rough sleep, and you stay in bed until you hear his keys in the door. Alternating between scrolling through social media on your phone in an attempt to distract yourself, and staring up the ceiling trying to figure out what you were going to say, the decision you’d come to was eating you up inside.. Now or never.

When he calls out to you, you yell back that you’ll be out in a moment, but you can’t bring yourself to get up, laying in your bed, staring at the ceiling, unmoving. After a few minutes, he knocks. It’s so gentle but you can feel it in your chest where you’re sitting up, staring at your hands. You make a noise, but don’t actually say anything, which he takes as an okay, pushing the door open.

Rationally, you know you’re being foolish for angsting over this all so much, but a four year friendship hangs in the balance, and you don’t want to say the wrong thing.

He leans against your doorframe, so effortlessly cool and casual with his arms crossed, eyebrows raised and concern in his eyes. You’re pretty sure he’s going to be the death of you.

Silence stretches between the two of you, both waiting for the other to start.

“I’m sorry,” you finally mutter, gaze dropping from him to your fidgeting fingers.

“Why?”

“For making things weird,” after a beat of hesitation, you amend, “for me. I’ve made things weird in my own mind, and I’m sorry.” Finally, you manage to speak the words that had been haunting you, but can’t even bring yourself look to him, to gauge his reaction, “I’ve really been trying to get my shit under control, and I never want to make you uncomfortable, dude, because aside from all of this, I’ve really liked living with you.”

“Y/N.....” His voice was so soft, fucking hell.

“But I’m being honest, because you’re my best friend and you deserve that... So, honestly, I think I’m in love with you and I don’t can’t stop, so I’m gonna move out.” The words come out in a rush, voicing the half thought idea that you seem to come to peace with as you say it out loud. You press your fidgeting hands to your knees as hard as you can manage, focusing intently on your duvet.

“Do I get any say in this?” Is not the response you were expecting, nor was the warmth in his voice, and there’s that unfamiliar, hopeful warmth in your chest, that’s growing more familiar by the moment, “because it’s taken me, like, a full month to finally be able to put all the shit that’s going around in my head into words, and I’d really prefer if you didn’t move out.”

Moments that feel like eons stretch out between you, that hope in your heart blossoming brighter with each beat of your heart.

“I like living with you, okay? And hanging out with you, and- and of course I like fucking you, but...” then he sighs, and finally you look to him. He’s still in your doorframe, face all scrunched up and forehead pressed to the cheap wood, like he was worried about saying the words out loud, “I sound like a sap,” he muttered, as though almost to himself, but then he’s relaxing, deep breath, and looking to you with a expression of gentle honesty, “I like... falling asleep next to you, ‘cos it means I get to wake up next to you,” he admits quietly, feeling too honest by half, averting his gaze, “and I wanna keep doing that for... for as long as I can, you know? I like us. I love you.”

A moment passes, then a second, then a third, while he waits for you to react somehow, while your world, your understanding, had shifted very suddenly to something new and bright.

And it shows on your face.

“All that worry was building up in me about where I was gonna live, and if we’d still be friends, and- and it was all for nothing!” You’ve never been so overjoyed be wrong, as sheepish as you were pleased. It got him to laugh, straightening up, off of the doorframe as you pushed back your covers and made your way to him.

“I love you too,” you tell him, feeling as though you were finally able to breath as your wrapped your arms around his neck, “I missed you so damn much, dude,” taking a moment to admire him, knowing now that all the feelings you’d been attempting to hide weren’t for nothing, something about the way he smiles at you just hits different.

“Believe it or not, I missed you too,” he smirks, one hand cupping your jaw, so warm, like his hand was made simply to hold your face, your smile, his thumb brushing your cheekbone.

Oh, you realise with sudden clarity when he kisses you, it finally feels like you’re home.

An Instagram Story post from @yourinstagram:

[ID: A video of Y/N lying back onto a bed, wearing a grin and wiggling around as if to get comfortable. The room is different to the one seen in most of the other videos that have previously featured in their Instagram stories. The duvet and pillows are dark, and we see a brief flash of unfamiliar art on the wall. Halfway through, they look at something off camera and laugh. The words ‘you would not BELIEVE how much i’ve missed this mattress’ are in the bottom left, in white, standing out against the bedspread.

There is no sound from diegetic sound from the video, however there is a song playing over the top; Whatever Forever by The Mowgli’s, specifically the lyrics: And when the sun comes up / Like it always does / It's whatever forever / You know we're falling together / And when the sun comes up / Like it always does / It's whatever forever / And it just keeps getting better.

End ID.]

The rest of the world all goes to Hell in 2020, so you’re not quite sure what it says about you or Corpse when your lives don’t change all that much. Of course you buy masks for grocery shopping, but being a career YouTuber has afforded you both the blessing of already working from home. Creating content from your desk, your home office, is what you do, besides having a few kind hearted and generous fans subscribing to your patreon, so quarantining in and of itself wasn’t too difficult.

Bu the time recommendations are replaced by actual laws, you and Corpse have officially been dating for several months, with more than a few months of mutual pining preceding that, and the year anniversary of the two of you moving in together has already been and gone, the two of you isolating yourselves together without even realising, simply by virtue of your careers. Amid the jokes of living like hermits that are occasionally thrown your way, you know all too well how lucky you are to find yourself in this situation.

And yet, somehow the public still doesn’t know that you and Corpse are more than just online acquaintances. At this point, you’ve got to admit, it’s kind of funny. Since officially getting together right before New Year’s, your mentions of him online have changed to the tongue-in-cheek ‘ex-housemate’, which you have never once explained. All you know is that every time either you or Corpse read it, you can both read the implied ‘current boyfriend’ that you’re not quite ready to admit to the world.

It’s an overwhelming year from the moment it begins, and the strangest part happens to be both the most wonderful and terrifying, as you get to watch in real time as the entire internet falls in love with Corpse too. One day he’s playing a simple little game set in space, the next, his followers have doubled, then tripled. Corpse plays videogames with some of the biggest names on the platform, with more reach and influence than you could ever rightly comprehend; you’re not even sure they can comprehend it, it’s as if they have no idea the effect their exposure will have on the creators they interact with.

Eventually the idea of turning your room into a recording studio, and second office space comes up. You’re not adverse to the idea, you’ve been living in his room essentially since the two of you got together, but his room is just as small as yours is, and so the conversation quickly turns from converting just your room, into converting both the little bedrooms into an office for you each, to be able to record and stream similtaneously without the other needing to clear out, finally using the master bedroom for it’s intended purpose. It takes a full week and a half to get everything moved and sorted, soundproofing Corpse’s former bedroom to make it as much of a sound studio as the space and your abilities allow. Suddenly, the music he’s been working on sporadically in the time that you’ve known him comes to the forefront, with the means to produce his work becoming more accessible.

Success didn’t come to him overnight, but more and more, it’s starting to feel like it did. Each morning the numbers climb higher and higher, staggeringly quickly, almost too fast to keep up, followers, song streams, subscribers, messages, potential collaborators. The eyes of the whole world have fallen on the man without a face. With love comes hate, jealousy turning to anger and resentment, but with no basis for their dislike beyond that.

“I didn’t fucking do anything,” he all but growls, hunched over his computer, exhausted, eyes shining in the light of his monitor, “nothing! They just -” sometimes he caves, googles himself, searches his name on social media, and though there’s a million comments that praise him, the ones that stick are the ones that feel the need to talk shit about him simply for daring to make a name for himself. Despite knowing how much it hurts, he does it anyway, out of some morbid curiosity. Swearing under his breath, he pushes himself back from his desk harder than is probably necessary -

“Where the fuck do people get off saying shit like this?” So mad it’s practically as if there’s steam coming off of him, he paces the living room where you had been playing videogames, furious as a caged tiger.

“If they had a valid fucking reason, then fine! If I’m an asshole, fine! But you know what? I’m not, I’m fucking trying here!” He’s all gnashing teeth, fingers flexing and unflexing, vitriolic with good reason, though it hurts your heart to seem him all worked up and exhausted.

You pause your game and get to your feet, quiet, still, and you catch his hand as he passes you in his pacing. Like moving on instinct, he wraps you up in his arms, tight, almost too tight, trembling with fury as he tries to steady his breathing, face buried against the crook of your neck. Chanting fuck like a prayer, the word going from disbelieving to furious, all you do is hold him tight in return, a moment of calm in the eye of the storm.

“I need to go the fuck to sleep, this shit’ll kill me,” he snarls, furious at the world, but you don’t let him go. Slowly, you press your lips to his shoulder, and exhale a deep, slow sigh. After a beat, he mirrors you, and then takes a second deep breath, muttering fuck on the exhale.

For a few more moments, you stand like that, his grip easing as he surfaces, just a little, to press a kiss to your shoulder.

“You want me to burn down Twitter’s servers?” You ask quietly, “I’d do it; fuck Twitter,” it’s mostly a joke. Mostly. But he gives a heavy but appreciative laugh at the very suggestion.

“Fuck Twitter,” he agreed, shoulders sagging, fight leaving him as he finally stepped back from you. Now instead of fury in his eyes, there’s just exhaustion; he looks like he’s about to collapse. When you urge him to go to bed, he agrees, sounding so defeated, meandering into your bedroom. He doesn’t even get under the covers, just falls asleep, sprawled out on the duvet.

Some days, all you can do is be the stillness away from the demands of the internet, calm and fond when everything feels like it’s moving too fast. These in-between moments are the ones you treasure; amid research, and writing, and filming, and streaming, and editing, and making music, there’s pockets in time of peace, his head in your lap while he’s dozing off to a movie, your fingers carding through his hair. Or a little speaker filling the kitchen with music, cooking dinner, moving around the space with practiced ease. There’s a few moments before the timer goes off and so he takes your hand and pulls you in to dance in a moment that’s so saccharine and perfect it feels like a movie. Or you’ll wake up in the morning to his lips on your jaw, your neck, peppering kisses across your chest amid murmured reminders about a stream you’d promised to be a part of starting in an hour. An hour feels like an age away when it’s just the two of you together like this, so you assure him you’ll be there on time, kissing him proper in the meantime.

That’s another thing that’s new, that’s changed; occasionally you find yourself joining one of his Among Us streams if they’re down a player. You’re not into the gaming scene to feel like you can commit to a regular stream, or a Twitch account for that matter, prefering to stream directly onto YouTube, but it’s a fun game, and the people Corpse plays with are all perfectly lovely. However, apart from knowing that he invited you, they know little else about your relationship, right up until, in mid-May, you find yourself in the middle of a game as an Imposter, yourself and Corpse streaming from your respective offices, you find yourself caught in the middle of a lie after self reporting. You probably would have gotten away with it too, except Corpse knew you far too well.

“How do you know they’re lying?” Cr1tikal asks during the meeting as Corpse claims you’ve self reported. The issue is that he’s right, you’re just mad that he’s almost definitely about to put you on blast, wincing visibly, already knowing what he was about to say before the words left his lips.

“Because that’s the exact same shit they pull when I ask where the leftovers are and they claim to have no idea what I’m on about - you knew I was saving those,” he accused you directly, much to the confusion of the rest of the living lobby. Whole face scrunching up, you lean forward in your chair, closer to the microphone, closer to your camera.

“Leftovers are fair game for anyone if they’re more than a day old,” you counter, not even denying it at this point, “and I told you I’d make more!” Instead of arguing that point, Corpse scoffed while the others were all wondering what the actual hell you were talking about.

“We live together,” the words come out without either of you seeming to consider if this was how you wanted to tell the world, followed by a beat of silence and then audible shock from the rest of the streamers, and chaos in your own stream chat, which both you and Corpse ignored for the time being, “which is why I know their alibi is bullshit.”

“Dude, I will come into your office in person and make you vote for yourself, do not test me.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” It may have sounded like a warning to anyone else listening, but you both knew it was a challenge. With that, you muted your own microphone and stood in a flurry of headphone cords and faux-angry gibberish.

Barging into his office without any preamble, you push him and he wheel-y office chair out of the way to vote for himself in the game, while he practically cackled with laughter at it all.

“Motherfucker, do not test me,” you said into his microphone after unmuting it, unable to hear the other’s responses seeing as you lacked headphones of your own, but judging by Corpse’s delighted expression, they were good. Muting his mic again, you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips, more amused than anything else by the events that had just transpired.

“You bastard,” voice much softer than the phrase allowed, he snorted another laugh, and pulled you back in for another kiss.

“They voted you out,” he smirked. Looking over your shoulder, you see your poor little character sailing through space; of course they did. The screen confirms you to be an Imposter. The crewmates win. Corpse snorts, "knew it.”

“Worst housemate I’ve got,” you announce once your back at your own computer; your chat is yelling, Corpse’s mic is muted but you can hear him laughing through the wall.

“Is this, like, a new thing? Didn’t you say you’d been living with a friend of yours, since the start of 2019?” Charlie points out, and pride quietly flares in your chest. Once his laughter has died down, Corpse unmutes to answer.

“Y/N is my friend -?” Which is both sweet, and the truth, but still you cough very pointedly. He tells you to shut it, but you can hear him grinning. For now, it feels as though you’ve disclosed enough, the rest of the truth would come out in due time if the world was meant to know. Charlie makes a noise of understanding, a new game starts, and the conversation is seemingly forgotten.

Two tweets liked by @yourtwitter. One from @crpsbby and one from @greensnotsus.

[ID: @crpsbby: as if 2020 could not get even weirder, what parallel dimension are we living in where @yourtwitter and @corpse_husband are housemates and good friends??? for a YEAR AND A HALF HOW DID NONE OF US KNOW?????

@greensnotsus: catch me in the comments of every single ig post and tweet @yourtwitter ‘s mentioned their ex-housemate. What Do You Mean Chief? was there another and y/n literally was just never actually mentioning corpse? #secretthirdcorpsey/nhousemate

End ID.]

It seems like every single currently popular YouTuber has been suggested to be the #SecretThirdCorpseY/NHousemate by now. The meme’s evolved into coming up with the most outlandish dots to possibly connect to jokingly suggest who may be the housemate, your favourite of which was;

Closely followed by;

‘Markiplier: Lives in LA. Kitchen has 4 ovens.

Y/N & Corpse: Live in LA. I have not seen their kitchen so could very well have 4 ovens and also Markiplier.’

One just said that the idea of Cr1tikal living with you both was just kind of hilarious. You liked it. Corpse commented ‘what would win Charlie’s growing collection of dildos and fleshlights or Y/N’s extensive paperback erotica library?’. Predictibly, every reply to him was ‘why would they fight, Corpse, you know they’d fuck’.

‘Y/N & Corpse have wildly conflicting content and live together.

HBomberguy & Corpse & Y/N ALL have wildly conflicting content and .... ? who knows ? Coincidence? I THINK NOT!’

“How did you not see that coming?” Laying on the sofa, you were all but cackling as Corpse deleted his initial comment.

“I posted it at four am,” he shook his head in exasperation, “forgot for a moment how goddamn horny the internet is.”

In streams that you’re not in, other players who you’ve come to consider as firneds, will often ask Corpse to say hi to you for them. If he knows that you’re not to busy, he’ll call out to you, and you obligingly join him to say give a quick hi to the others, your chin perched on his shoulder. Sometimes you’ll join him for parts of his stream, keeping quiet, just enjoying his commentary the way the rest of the stream must be doing too. Usually it’s harmless, though sometimes if you’re in a certain mood, you can’t help but tease him. The others say hi, but you’re already by his side, in a seat of your own by his, pressing a kiss to his jaw; he calls out still, pretending as if you’re in another room, but immediately mutes himself.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he groans as you trail feather-light kisses down his throat.

“You wanna unmute so I can say hi?” With a smirk on your lips, and voice as low and teasing as it is, he hesitates. Close as you are, you can hear the others asking if everything’s alright in his headphones.

“You couldn’t have waited another five minutes for the stream to wrap up?” But he doesn’t sound mad, turning to you, pulling his headphones from his ears, hanging them around his neck, turning more to face you.

“I can wait,” you assure, suddenly shooting for innocent as you shift back from him. But there’s still one innocuous hand on his knee. Neither of you want to look away, want to admit defeat; your hand moves an inch higher, and you give his thigh a squeeze, desperately trying to keep your expression innocent.

Corpse unmutes.

“Ah, goddamn, sorry guys,” his focus is still entirely on you, smile creeping across his lips, pupils dark and wide, “I think they’re burning something in the kitchen, I kind of need to run to make sure it’s not a grease fire or some shit -”

“Is that a possibility?” You hear from his headphones, too tinny and far away to tell who it is.

“More than you’d probably assume,” Corpse smirks at your quietly outraged expression, at the way you mouth ‘I hate you’. Everyone’s quick to wish him luck, but the moment his microphone’s off and his stream has ended, you’ve got your lips on his, eager and furious and amused in equal measure.

Now you can tag him in posts without worrying, the secret finally revealed, at least in part. Every other month it feels as though you’re listening to a new song demo, and then retweeting it and hyping it up the very next week, overwhelmingly proud each and every time, despite how the year feels like it’s going too fast and too slow at once.

There’s never any hesitation when it comes to hyping each other’s work online, now both feeling free to comment and retweet each other’s latest projects as you see fit, from you hyping up his songs, to him retweeting when you drop a new video you’re especially proud of.

Perhaps it’s a little cruel, the fact that you both find the internet’s collective confusion regarding your situation so funny, but for all you’ve been subtle, you also know that there’s been accidental hints about it’s true nature, it’s just that no-one’s thought to put two and two together. Even now, people were so focused on your differences that they couldn’t see the truth right in front of them.

Three tweets, one from @yourtwitter, one from @y/nseyebrows, one from @Corpse_Husband.

[ID:

@yourtwitter posted: SORRY TO BE ON MY BULLSHIT AGAIN BUT I LITERALLY HAVE THE COOLEST AND MOST FUCKIN TALENTED EX-HOUSEMATE AND EVERYONE WHO DOESN’T THINK SO IS BOTH WRONG AND A FOOL @Corpse_Husband

(Thumbnail: A pale woman with black hair that comes down to her shoulders, and a fringe. She is wearing black cat ears and is looking directly into camera. She is wearing a sleeveless shirt with a hole in the middle of her shirt that shows off her cleavage. Her arms are tattooed.

@y/nseyebrows commented: get you a friend who hypes you up like y/n hypes corpse #goals

Link: Cat Girls Are Ruining My Life! - CORPSE

🔗open.spotify.com)

@Corpse_Husband retweeted @yourtwitter’s post with the caption: live in hype squad at it again 😂🖤 but also yeh stream cat girls are ruining my life!

End ID.]

It feels like a year has passed in only the blink of an eye; a few weeks ago, Corpse had released E-GIRLS ARE RUINING MY LIFE, the song had rocketed to the top of Spotify’s charts, and all of a sudden it’s Halloween again.

“Does this... are we counting from last Halloween when we first hooked up, or when we came back after that two week break?” Laying in bed the morning of, you squint up at the ceiling as you consider the date.

“Did you actually have feelings for me last Halloween?” Still half asleep and with his face mushed into his pillow, his voice comes out as a rough mumble.

“Yes.”

“Then yeah, I’d count this as a year,” and though his words have a fond warmth rushing through you, it takes you a moment to process the full implication of what he’s saying.

“Wait... were we sleeping together for almost two months while both pretending not to have feelings for each other?” You’re a little horrified at your collective foolishness.

“Hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” is his way of confirming, with a lopsided grin, confirms with a cheeky grin, propping himself up on his elbows to press a kiss to your lips.

“God we’re the worst,” you give a contented sigh, grinning, lips inches from his, “I love it.”

As you let yourself be pulling into another kiss, deeper, more insistent, you know there’s something heartwarming about looking back on your antics, seeing how blind you both had been, yet still being glad that it happened; after all, it lead you to this moment.

“You’re insufferably cute,” he murmured against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, your chest.

“I could be less cute, if it’s really that insufferable,” there’s a mischevious glint in your eyes, smile sharp as he comes to rest his chin on your sternum, looking up at you through his lashes.

“I’m sure you could try,” comes his smirked response. You’re about to play at being defensive, but suddenly, and for reasons that have entirely to do with his mouth, you find yourself at a loss for words; the two of you spending the rest of your the morning of your anniversary celebrating by not getting out of bed until noon.

That evening, there’s a Halloween SCP stream which you’ve agreed to be a part of with your boyfriend and a few friends, excited to be able to dress up, even if you have to stay inside. Even less people would know that Corpse was dressing up too, but it means that you have the pleasure of sitting in his lap on the sofa in an effort to apply eyeliner to his waterline, so you’re not going to complain. It’s not that he can’t, it’s more that you offered; it’s an intimate moment, his hands steady on your hips, and an implicit show of trust.

“Who are you this year?” Yet again, Corpse is at a loss in the face of your all-black outfit. This year it’s a simple black shirt and jeans, and a nice leather jacket; you could be any number of things, but you’d finally decided to go and find the telltale accessory. It had arrived a few weeks ago, and you’d stashed it in the back of your underwear drawer to keep it a surprise.

“Not who,” facing away from him, you grin from ear to ear as you placed a headband with two high quality faux fur cat ears on your head, turning to him. He looks at your face, and then to your head, and then to the fluffy tail in your left hand that had a clip so it could be fixed the back of your pants. His eyes are wide, surprised, and you fiddle with the tail, twisting, trying to clip it to the back of your jeans, a little self conscious, “they’re a bit nicer than the party city ones we got a few months ago, and I mean, I figured if other people were going to see them on stream, why not invest in something a little higher quality, right?” Then, you turned back to him, refusing to be embarrassed; you looked cute as hell! “You know I do listen to your music, you know? And for the record, I fell for you before I ever put the cat ears on.”

He flushes a brilliant scarlet, surprisingly, as if every single one of the lyrics passed through his mind at once, then followed by every other song he’d ever published.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Corpse’s sudden laughter surprises you, and in the next moment, he’s crowding you against the drawers you’d pulled the accessories from, though you’re more than meeting him halfway, pulling him into a kiss, smirking.

“Sorry, I’m - uh, costume made me late,” when Corpse finally gets to his stream, starting a few minutes later than intended, he apologises to the stream. At this point you join too, keeping quiet, trying not to draw attention to your own late arrival.

“Wait! Are you in costume?” Sykkuno, already tipsy by the time you join, is delighted. Instead of an answer, you hear Corpse make a noise of consideration with no follow through, and you take that as your cue to announce that he’s a pirate.

“And I’m a cat! Got a little, fluffy tail and everything!” You exclaim, you can’t help yourself, chipper, flicking at your expensive little ears to the delight of your chat, shifting in your seat so you could pull up and show off the fluffy, faux fur tail attached to the back of your pants, to which Sykkuno practically cheers, exclaiming that he’s also a cat. Your boyfriend is very quiet, and you’re not the only one who notices this.

“Ah, Mister Corpse ‘Cat Girls Are Ruining My Life’ Husband,” the smirk in Rae’s words is coming through so loudly that you can see it without seeing her at all, “you care to comment on any of this? What do you think of both Sykkuno, and apparently your housemate, being cats for Halloween?”

Corpse uhhhhhhhs for what is probably too long.

“Cat-people,” you correct with a smirk, and whatever noise Corpse had been making for five whole seconds only gets louder and more insistent.

“I’m gonna keep my mouth shut on this one,” though he sounds a little flustered, a little called out, and you know if you’d walk into the spare room he’d probably be blushing behind his monitor. This, of course, was deliberate on your part, but Sykkuno, who’d managed to earn a place in Corpse’s heart through sheer, sweet earnestness alone, was the accidental cherry on top.

“I’m sorry if we’re ruining your life right now,” Sykkuno says without a hint of irony. Corpse practically chokes at that, and Rae makes a noise like she wants to follow up on his comment, but Sykkuno’s already thinking out loud, as the alcohol hits him a little harder, “it’s still so weird to me, Y/N, like half the internet would give their right arm to just talk to him, and you lived with him for a year before anyone knew.”

Oh, this is the direction the conversation’s taking. Corpse coughs sharply; it’s vague, but part of you thinks that if the truth were to come out on any night, it would make sense if it were this one. Maybe he can feel that too.

The game’s chat function was based on the player’s in-game proximity, so as many of the others in the stream ran off, it left Sykkuno, Corpse, and you, walking through the polygonal halls, chatting together.

“You jealous?” You couldn’t help but tease Sykkuno gently, who was quick to admit, in an tipsily earnest way, that he absolutely was. Without hesitation or reservation, and in a tone that was so gentle and fond it made your heart melt, Corpse was assuring him that they’d be able to meet in the future, “maybe I should be jealous,” you snorted, the words slipping out without much thought, “dude that was dreamy as fuck-” but Sykkuno was quick to shush you.

“Y/N, just let me have this,” he played up their well established bromance with a dreamy sigh, while Corpse simply laughed at the exchange.

“Well if anyone was capable of stealing him from me, it’d probably be you, buddy,” you smile comes through in your words, fond and amused at the exchange.

“No-one’s gonna steal -” Corpse started, tone amused but strangely earnest in a way that has you smiling, even as Sykkuno cut him off too, even as Lily and Toast rejoin the three of you, asking what’s happening, and Sykkuno, dedicated to getting his thoughts out, loudly shushed them all.

“Corpse, you haven’t seen me try; I’ll usurp Y/N and be the One True Housemate, it’ll be great,” Sykkuno played along, clearly not picking up on the full implications of your words, though you knew that Corpse had by the way he’d cleared his throat before speaking very pointedly.

“Actually I think they meant because we’re together,” he clarified for you. A beat of silence followed, the prelude to an explosion of noise; it felt like a cathartic release, to laugh at the whole lobby’s sudden confusion, and to hear Corpse too, snickering at the chaos he’d caused.

“You motherfucker,” your tone was so affectionate that in a single instant, everyone knew that he’d been telling the truth.

“I wish you guys would just make an twenty minute video titled ‘the truth’ like every other YouTuber with big news,” Toast groaned, “or at least drop bombshells in streams I’m not a part of.”

“Or tweeted it,” Lily chimed in, but all you can do is grin wickedly.

“But then we wouldn’t get to hear or see all the live reactions,” you point out, gaze drifting from the game to your chat, smile widening, “yes, hello chat! He is telling the truth!” The rest of the group heard you as you said that, and Corpse has turned his microphone off, though you can hear him laughing from the next room.

“It’s been a full year, I figured we were allowed a little chaos as a treat,” when he comes back, that’s the only explanation he gives.

“You’ve been together for a year?” Sykkuno hollers, and you’re the one to confirm; a year to the day.

“Happy anniversary,” Toast huffs, “I hate you both.” But his heart’s not in it, and you can hear the exasperated amusement in his voice before his character runs off, now leading the team through the halls.

From there, the game moves on, as does the conversation, with only the occasional, disbelieving mutter in passing, like some of them are still processing it. As the stream is coming to an end, you say goodbye to the rest of the lobby, and to chat. Logging off, and turning off your monitors, you yawn and stretch in the relative darkness, with only a strip of LED lights on behind you. In the sudden quiet of your own room, you can hear Corpse’s muffled, indistinct voice as he’s finishing up his own stream. Letting yourself into his space, you keep quiet, but drape your arms around him, cheek resting gently atop the headphones on his head, eyes watching his own chat, his own stream as it winds down. Without missing a beat or seeming at all phased, the hand that he’d had resting on his keyboard comes to hold yours, linking your fingers.

“Babe?” He asks, addressing you when there must be a lull in conversation. There’s no need to keep these sorts of conversations muted anymore. Judging by the tinny noise you can hear from his headphones, and the aggressive way Toast is wiggling on screen, not muting was a deliberate choice too.

“You wanna watch Scream after this?” You ask, tone light, and he snickers, fondly remembering last Halloween.

“Fucking absolutely,” he agreed, raising your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before going back to addressing chat, and the few remaining streamers, “you heard ‘em, I got somewhere much better to be than with you guys. Happy Halloween, later.”

And with that, he signed off.

After stretch of his own, he stands, finally wrapping you up in a hug, so you taking a moment to relish in the warmth and security of his embrace. Right up until you feel a distinct tug on your headband, and realise with some amusement that he’s marveling at the cat ears that still adorned your head. Stepping back, you tip your head towards him just a little, giving him a few more moments to play with them.

“So is now the time I should mention that I got a custom collar with a little bell, or -?”

“Really?” The word almost gets caught in his throat, like he’s embarrassed by how much he enjoys the idea.

“The only reason I wasn’t wearing it earlier is because I didn’t want you to expire live on stream whenever you heard the little bell ringing and would remember that I’m just in the next room,” smirk turning sharp, you sometimes can’t help the instinct you get to gently tease him, clearly with love in your heart, like you had for so many years. Moving your head and the ears out of his grip to look back at him, he doesn’t seem like he knows quite where to go from here, gazing into the middle distance, half lost in his own thoughts.

“They were meant to be just for Halloween, but I think it counts as an anniversary gift too,” you continue, softer this time, less of an edge to your words as you reach up to straighten your headband just a little. At least that seems to bring him out of his thoughts, his eyes following the movement of your hands.

“If I went back and told me from five years ago that I’d be in love with the person who reviews books like My Billionaire Triceratops Craves Gay Ass, I’m pretty sure I’d laugh at me,” Corpse tells you, but his expression shifts so quickly from contemplative to delighted, smiling so wide his eyes are creasing in the corners. A surprised, endeared laugh escapes you as he raises a hand to hold your cheek, the touch so tender it warms you to the very tips of your toes.

“But it’d be true,” despite your amusement, your voice is soft, leaning into his touch, thinking back on how nervous you were to message him back that first time, how you never could have known that one tweet would change your life forever. When you look in his eyes, see the adoration and gentle love there, you’re pretty sure he’s thinking the same thing.

“It’d still be absolutely true.”

#corpse husband x reader #corpse #corpse husband #corpse imagines #corpse x reader #corpse husband imagine #corpse_husband #shut ur pretty mouth #cyltlanp

1K notes · View notes

volturiwolf · 2 years ago

Text

The Volturi Princess - A Felix Volturi x fem!Reader Story (part 11)

A/N: I haven't updated this story in a long time, and I'll probably have to write the next parts eventually but I have to find my notes and/or inspiration for that - I also wrote this over 5 months ago

No of Words: 5300+

Mentions of: Abandonment, Abortion, Anxiety, Blood, Bruises, Coma/Comatosed State, Death Emotional Abuse, Emotional and Physical Pain, Gaslighting, Greece/Greek Language - with translation, Heartbreak, Italian Language - with translation, Manipulation, Murder, Pain, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Suffering, Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts, Swear Language, Throwing Up/Puking, Witches/Wizards/Witchcraft

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Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10

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“The Volturi Princess ” Tag List (reply if you want to be tagged or removed): @eugeniapet @singerj2002 @mrtony-stank1 @ikissedthescarsonherskinn-blog @alecvolturiswifeforever @hshehdyhd @kpopgirlbtssvt @eunoia-kth @iilsenewman @crazyweaslelover @volturidoll13 @develin13 @nixwolfe @raindancer2004 @thevolturiarejustbetter @vamp-army @like-rain-or-confetti @maxnificent @primswan@marvelatthetwilight @avyannadawn @wallwriterstuff @captain-yeet @dreamy-bumblebee @volturi-stuff @perfectcolortreestudent @ssa--holmes @venusdelaroix @ghostofscarley @adaydreamaway08 @altera--pars @aquanova99

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Felix’s POV

I sat in my room, again, doing nothing in particular. Lately, nothing would excite or even interest me enough to occupy my mind for more than a few minutes. I didn’t know if I was going through a phase, or if that was my actual everyday life before the incident.

I didn’t think I could actually remember anything distinct before the incident as if crucial parts of my memory were wiped off. My life couldn’t be that boring, that meaningless. I hadn’t found a mate; I hadn’t changed a job for over 2000 years; I hadn’t done anything remotely fun. I wondered what my life came to, or how I even got here in the first place.

As much and as hard as I tried to remember, I couldn’t remember a single thing. For some unknown reason, I could only remember that Aro found me, brought me here, and turned me, just how he did with the Twins. Yet, I had a deep pain inside me that I couldn’t comprehend; it was like a pain caused by loss, a loss I had never experienced.

The only thing I could do was walk around the castle aimlessly, looking at the faces of the other vampires around that seemed to have successfully returned back to their usual routines, not having questioned anything for some time now. After Aro’s visit to the Egyptians, he laid the issue to rest, not looking for any answer afterward.

And so, our usual, boring life continued as such. Sometimes we would have to leave Volterra for our routine check-ups on other vampires and covens or to take care of some vampires’ disobedience and destruction tendencies. Other than that, there was nothing I was interested enough in.

The Twins and Dem would frequently occupy either the Common Room or the library. The Twins enjoyed challenging each other on chess, or they would call the other guards when they wanted to play other board games they had brought over from abroad, such as ‘Clue’, ‘Guess Who’, and ‘Monopoly’.

This particular day, just like every other day, I sat on a couch at the library, doing nothing in particular, as Demetri was looking through his history books a few meters away from me, and the Twins were arguing with each other at the other end of the room. I didn’t pay too much attention to them, but I, unintentionally, did catch a few words here and there.

They were talking about Freud’s “Death Drive” Theory, and how he theorized that people would tend to repeat traumatic events, even if they caused them distress. Unconsciously, that put me deep in thought for a few minutes, as I, myself, would put myself in a painful situation when I was trying to remember what happened to me, as a way to comfort myself that I really tried to find an answer to my questions.

Demetri was still too deep into his studies, so he didn’t pay attention to anyone and anything but his books. That left me alone, wandering around the library corridors, trying to find something that would interest me enough to pick up and read. I didn’t have a particular interest. Well, I did like anything related to fighting, so I supposed that wars and history could be the closest to my interests.

There were several books about wars and history that reached all the way up to the tallest shelf. The Kings - more like Aro and Caius - loved everything related to history, but most of all, anything related to wars. Though we were consuming human blood, there was nothing that pleased Aro and Caius more than seeing humans die, especially if it was by another human’s hand. They claimed that humans thought they could actually conquer the whole world, and, as long as they did, vampires would always manage to rise above them.

As I was browsing through the titles, my eye caught a deep purple book on the lowest shelf. I bent down to grab it, but I could almost swear that the book was pulled back - if I wasn’t alone here, I would think that it was Afton or someone else, but I couldn’t smell anyone. Once again, slowly and steadily, I went to grab it from its shelf; this time, the book did not move.

I started browsing through the pages, but the more I did, the less I understood. The book was written in a language I did not understand - was it French? German? No, there were no Latin characters indicating to any of these languages. I quickly ran to where Dem was, for he must know, having studied many languages throughout the years.

“Demetri? I need your help.” I tossed the book on the table, by Demetri’s readings.

“What?” Dem grumbled as I interrupted his study.

“I need your help with this book. I found it just a few minutes ago, but I cannot understand its content. It’s written in a language I cannot understand.”

This perked up Dem’s interest, who grabbed the book, scrolling through it, and smiling smugly. I knew he knew what it was about the moment he smiled.

“It’s Greek, but it’s not something I can actually comprehend. Must be one of the Kings’ books. They are the only ones who keep books in Greek anymore. Even I, myself, do not recall having any books in Greek left.” He tossed the book back at me, having quickly lost his interest, and returning back to his studies.

“You don’t see anything wrong with it?”

“What do you mean wrong, Felix? What could possibly go wrong with a book? Is it one of the “forbidden books” or something?” Dem mocked.

“No, but what if… What if it’s a magic book?”

“Fe, don’t be ridiculous. There’s no such thing as a “magic book”.”

“Why not, Dem? If we exist, why cannot magic and magic books exist?”

Demetri looked taken aback and had to think for a while. “Well, I suppose, if you put it that way, there could be magic. But, do not take my word for it. We don’t know what that book is about, whether it is magical or not. It’s not something you have to occupy your mind with, anyway. I know you’re bored and you have nothing better to do, but don’t stray too far from the others. We need you here. Present. If you think about imaginary things or things that didn’t happen, you will lose yourself in the process. So, please, don’t give in to such things. Stay focused here.”

Dem was right. I was trying too much, and so hard to hold onto little things - anything that would bring my memories back, that I started to lose track of what is real and what is not. I was the only one who was still so obsessed with finding answers where there were no questions left, that I lost the meaning behind everything. Instead of spending my time training the lower guards or interacting with Demetri or the Twins or Heidi or Santiago, I spent my time self-loathing about something that may not even exist.

And though the book had sparked my interest and curiosity about the possibility of a magical world existing, I still could not find a starting point to start my research from, so I just gave up eventually. It took me a few days, but I was finally able to fully recover from my previous state. I had so many human feelings that I almost forgot I wasn’t human.

I was a vampire, the Volturi executioner, and I should act more like that, instead of feeling. I wasn’t here to feel; I was here to follow orders, and tear others apart whenever I was asked to. From that moment, I had finally decided that I would turn my life around, and be myself again - the executioner that everyone feared.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(Y/N)’s POV

After New York, Louvel and I traveled to Toronto. Then, we had to pass through Canada, and, it was only when we reached Vancouver, that there was the issue of how we would travel up to Alaska. There was also the issue of me feeding without Louvel finding out about me.

I struggled to be as discreet as I could, hiding my eating habits, though I still ate small portions of human food. In the end, I was forced to reveal my true identity to him. I thought a lot about it, about the consequences and what that would mean for our friendship in the long run, but I decided that letting him know would be the right thing to do. Surprisingly, he was not as shocked by my revelation as I thought he would be.

For some inexplicable reason, it was the exact opposite. He seemed to accept it too quickly. He wasn’t shocked or skeptical; he didn’t need some time to think about everything; he accepted reality too easily. That put me in deep thought about whether I should trust him or not, and made me question what his true intentions were. I decided I would have to trust him for as long as I needed him; after all, even if I was pregnant, I could still get rid of him pretty quickly, and I would if he proved to be disloyal.

On a positive note, letting him know what I truly was helped me to finally not be so discreet about my need for blood. Louvel would even help me for as long as we were in Vancouver, bringing unsuspecting humans over for me to drink from. He had a sort of talent for manipulation, and they seemed to trust him quite easily and quickly, which was why they would follow him without asking questions.

He was rather attractive for a human, with his fluffy, but carefully styled hair, and his charming-looking eyes, which helped him a lot when he brought humans to me - among other things he did in his life. He was a natural charmer, and he would surely have me mesmerized if I wasn’t pregnant with the love of my life’s baby. Even Louvel’s charm could not take Felix’s thought away from me.

Speaking of my pregnancy, though I still had 3 or 4 months ahead of me before giving birth, I could feel the baby getting anxious, as, lately, it moved more than usual. It was as if it could sense that we were getting closer and closer to freedom, and it couldn’t wait. I personally couldn’t wait. All this time spent traveling had absolutely exhausted me, and I only wished to sit down and relax, so I just couldn’t wait for the moment I went to Denali.

There was only one issue left, which seemed to be the one that set us back a few days. We had to find a way to reach Alaska, without having to ask the Cullens for help. I wanted it to be sort of a surprise, but also I wanted them to slowly realize the reality of my pregnancy, without being forced to understand the process and nature behind it. I wanted everything to be absorbed by them slowly, without forcing them to understand anything they couldn’t. I would already owe them if they accepted me, so I didn’t want to force them to come down here and pick Louvel and me up.

We were making plans for a week straight, asking people around, and looking out for any information that could probably indicate a way for us to leave from Vancouver. It took us a week, but we finally managed to find a way, through the Alaska-Canada highway, which was actually built a little less than 20 years ago. The issue was that the highway started from Dawson Creek, which was over 1,200 kilometers away, and ended at Delta Junction, which meant we still had a long way to go between Vancouver and Denali.

The easiest part for me - which Louvel was and wasn’t opposed to, at the same time - was to steal a car for us to drive up to Alaska. Stealing was easy; the difficult part was to find a car that could stand the long way up to Alaska. I settled on a cute, black Volkswagen Beetle, which seemed pretty reliable for the time being.

We maxed up the tank and took a few bottles full of petrol with us, just in case we ran out and there was no petrol station around. I had filled up with blood the day before our departure, so, really early in the morning, we loaded the car and left.

I decided I would be the one to drive the majority of the way because I didn’t trust Louvel driving us up there - I may not have been so different from him, but I was still more capable as a pregnant tribrid than he was as a human. Louvel himself didn’t try to oppose me after I hissed at him out of instinct. The route was supposed to take as long as three days, but with my need to hunt and still sleep, it took us over a week.

Finally, after 4,000 kilometers of driving, we were close to the Denalis’ residence. It was a completely different scenery from what I had seen so far. Though it was around the middle of autumn, everything around was covered in thick layers of snow that gave out an eerie atmosphere. Yet, the air was crisp and clean, and I could finally breathe, letting go of all my anxiety. I felt that I could finally relax; that I was finally away and safe from Volturis' influence.

I felt excited at the prospect of a new chance in life; a life that was not associated with the Volturi; a life that had me leaving my human self behind. If everything went well and the Denalis agreed, I planned to stay with them permanently. The Cullens were only living there temporarily - I knew that because Carlisle himself never settled on one place for too long, so it was a matter of time until they left again.

But the Denalis were permanent residents of the area, so the probability of them leaving was none. I could easily come to terms with staying in that place forever. Besides, I had spent almost 3,000 years living in one place, so I didn’t think it would be impossible staying here for just as long, even more. The seclusion of this place meant that it wasn’t easy for others - humans or vampires - to notice or get close.

The Denalis’ house was deep between the snow-covered mountains, beyond the vast plains covered with trees. A lodge-like building that looked as warm as luxurious, its aesthetic matching perfectly with the surrounding environment. It was so different from what I imagined. I thought, like the Volturi, they would prefer a house made out of stone; a house that looked more like a cave. But the Denalis’ house was nowhere near that. The warm wood the house was made of, gave a sense of luxury, familiarity, and a welcoming feeling.

I saw the house from afar, but as we got closer and closer, I would drive more and more slowly, unsure of what they would think if they saw me all of a sudden. I, myself, was unsure and would have never imagined what they would feel like if they saw me. I continued driving slowly, as they finally noticed me and came out of the house. I stopped about 40 meters away, to give them space and distance between us.

First, it was Tanya and Kate who came out, followed by Irina, Eleazar, Carmen, Carlisle, and Edward. They looked shocked when they saw and realized who it was, but took a few steps forward, waiting for me to get out of the car.

“Is that them?” Louvel asked me from the passenger’s seat, without taking his eyes off of the vampires in front of us.

“Yeah, that’s them. Stay in the car, please.” I opened and shut the door quickly, walking towards the Denalis.

“(Y/N)?” Carmen and Eleazar were looking at me, shocked to see me in front of them, after all these years.

“(Y/N)? Is that you?” Carlisle looked just as shocked at me being there. His mind was mostly blank if I could ignore the many questions he had at that moment.

“Yeah, Carlisle. Hi.” I smiled at them. Though I had many powers - vampire and witch ones, I still felt powerless in front of everyone. I could not see what they would do or how they would react, as they seemed emotionless.

Suddenly, a petite girl came running out of the house. “Hi, (Y/N). I’m Alice. I was waiting for you. Is everything alright with..you know?” She looked at my belly once, and I could immediately tell she was the only one who knew without me having to tell anyone.

“Uhm, yeah, hi. I... I haven’t met you before, have I? Sorry if I had. My brain has been a bit fuzzy right now.”

“Oh, I totally get it. Come on in. Tell your friend to come, too.” Alice grabbed my hand and led me into the house, as I turned around and nodded at Louvel to follow us.

Alice brought me in, and I was right to think that the house was just as warm and welcoming as it seemed. It had huge windows, some of which started from the ground and went all the way up to the top. Other walls were completely covered with a mix of wood and stone. The lit fireplace was radiating its warmth through the house, and I felt my insides slowly adapt and absorb the warmth around me.

“What brings you here, (Y/N)? You are too far from home.” Tanya looked worried but also saddened. She didn’t seem to have anything against me per se, but she wouldn’t stop recalling the last time she saw me - the day the Volturi destroyed Sasha.

I decided to be open and honest to them from the beginning if I wanted them to accept me. “I decided to leave. I wanted to leave. It was for the best for both of us.” I placed my hand on my belly, rubbing it, to comfort both the baby and myself.

Tanya’s eyes popped wider. “So, it’s true. You are pregnant.” I now knew that Alice had informed everyone else about my situation.

“Yeah. And I had to get away to save the baby. And myself. I wouldn’t bear it if the baby had to go through what I went through with Aro. I couldn’t think of anyone else to go to than you, Carlisle. I am so sorry that I didn’t warn you beforehand.” I looked at the kind doctor with guilt.

“It’s okay, (Y/N), really, don’t worry about it.” He took a few steps towards me and kneeled in front of me. “Can I?” He moved his hand and stopped a few centimeters away from my belly. I nodded at him, and he put his hand on my belly, feeling the baby.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, trying to understand, possibly figure out my pregnancy with his own medical knowledge. Everyone was standing around us, looking at Carlisle’s hand and my belly, as if they were waiting on a verdict. Carlisle smiled and looked back at me, with his hand still on my belly.

“Can you feel the heartbeat?” He asked me quietly, to which I nodded. “It’s strong and rapid. I don’t want to come to rapid conclusions, but I don’t think it’s just one baby.”

I looked at him dumbfounded. “What do you mean it isn’t ‘just one baby’?”

“I think you’re having twins. Explains why your belly is that prominent, and why the heartbeat is so quick. I think there are two different babies inside of you.”

“How... How could I not feel them, then? You know, I should have known, I should have felt them. Shouldn’t I? How couldn’t I feel that there were two babies?” I was slowly panicking at my incompetence to realize there could have been two babies inside me instead of one.

“I don’t really know the answer to that, (Y/N). Maybe..maybe because they are part of you. Maybe because you were changing and getting more vulnerable by the pregnancy? How have you been feeling during the pregnancy?”

“Well, I was getting more and more tired by the day. I needed to sleep way more than I usually did. I craved blood way more than I usually did.”

Everyone gasped quietly, looking at the only human around, with shock, worried that I revealed our secret to him. However, Louvel, standing close to Carlisle, but not as close as the others, seemed unmoved by everything that was happening in front of him.

“It’s okay, Louvel knows everything. He was the one who helped me the last few weeks with my hunger and need for blood, actually.” I smiled awkwardly, as the others kept staring at him, still not trusting him.

“You know, your family doesn’t like it when humans know about us, so how are you going to explain it to them that you, yourself, let a human know?” Kate frowned her eyebrows, questioning my actions.

“I simply won’t tell them about any of that. Louvel is open to get changed anyway.” I pointed my hand at my friend. “Besides, my “family”, as you call them, won’t even remember me. I made sure of that.”

“What do you mean? What did you do, (Y/N)?”

“Relax, Tanya. I didn’t kill them, or anything, even if that’s what most of you would hope for. I just made them forget about me.”

“You can do that?” Kate’s eyes popped, and I was worried they’d fall odd of her.

“I’m still a witch, Kate, and I’ve been training hard, ever since I got to meet my parents. However, now, they don’t remember me, and neither do the Volturi. None of them knows I ever existed, and though I wasn’t totally happy with it, it was necessary for me to make them forget. I’ll move on with my life, and live with that from now on. I feel safe the farther away I am from Volterra, and the farther away I am from Aro and the others. I was just hoping I could stay here with you, away from everyone who may have ever known me. But that is only if you want me here, of course.”

“(Y/N), we may have had our differences with the Volturi, but that doesn’t mean we have anything against you per se. You were just a pawn, part of the coven. Of course you can stay here. But, we need to know about your current diet. We can see your red eyes, sweety.”

“I know, Tanya, and thank you for accepting me into your family and coven. I only need to feed with human blood for as long as I’m pregnant. That’s what my mom did she was pregnant with me, and that’s what Sulpicia did when she was pregnant with my mom. After I give birth, I will go back to animal blood.”

“So, such a pregnancy is not uncommon within your family?” Carlisle asked me.

“No, it’s not. Aro got Sulpicia pregnant while she was human, so my mom came out as half-human and half-vampire. When my mom got pregnant, she turned my father, so he could help and take care of her during her pregnancy. As long as someone is human - it doesn’t matter if they are partially or wholly, they can carry a vampire baby. Both Aro and my father eventually had to turn Sulpicia and my mother, because giving birth to vampire babies - even if they are half-vampire, or a quarter vampire, can actually kill someone. The babies are too strong for a human’s body to handle. That’s also part of the reason why I came here. Carlisle, when I finally give birth, I’ll need you to turn me, no matter what happens.”

“I will try, (Y/N), if that’s what it takes for you to stay alive.” He smiled sadly.

“Thank you.”

I could suddenly sense four more figures coming closer and closer to the house - two men and two women. I didn’t recognize their scents, but I could sense their connection to the vampires in front of me. Within a few seconds, two blondes and two brunettes entered the house. The blonde woman was gorgeous, and she was holding hands with the brunette man. I knew who they were, even though I never met them personally. Just like I knew Edward and Alice.

“Carlisle? Who’s this?” Rosalie asked, still clinging to Emmett’s side, unsure of what was going in front of her.

“That’s (Y/N). The one I told you about.” I was honored that Carlisle talked to his family about me.

“That’s (Y/N)?! What is she doing so far away?” Rosalie was a mix of worried and angry, but I couldn’t distinguish one over the other.

“(Y/N) will be staying with us from now on. (Y/N), we’ll take care of you and your babies, don’t worry about it.” Tanya smiled and caressed my cheek.

“So, you are pregnant?” Rosalie smiled, letting go of Emmett’s arm, and walking to sit by my side.

“Yeah. I’m surprised you all somehow know, but I’m guessing Alice told you?” I smirked playfully at the small brunette girl, who smiled back widely.

“She told us you were pregnant, and that we should expect you, but she didn’t know when exactly. Her visions kept changing.” Esme replied from Carlisle’s side, as they wrapped their arms around each other.

“She didn’t tell us you were bringing a human, though.” Jasper looked like he was constipated, but he was actually trying to restrict himself from attacking Louvel. He’s been a vegetarian for just a few years, so having humans around was extremely difficult for him.

“Don’t worry, man. I don’t plan to stay human for too long. I’ve talked with (Y/N), and I plan to get changed.” Louvel answered back, as Jasper kept staring at him.

“Are you sure you want that life for yourself? As much as I thank Carlisle for saving me, I wouldn’t want that life. Damned for all eternity.” Edward was brooding again, looking sad and regretful.

“I know I want this. Why wouldn’t you? It’s the start of a new life, full of so many possibilities. I think it’s a chance to become a better version of myself and try to evolve.”

“Whatever you say, dude.” Emmett patted Louvel on the back and almost knocked him off, making me laugh.

After the initial conversation, it was a matter of where I would stay, where Louvel would stay, and what we would eat. Irina and Kate were willing to run to the Anchorage, which was a couple of hundred kilometers away, to make sure Louvel - but mostly me - had enough food to last us for a couple of weeks, until the next time they’d have to go.

Rosalie was set to take care of me during my pregnancy; she always wanted to have children of her own, and she saw a great opportunity in, at least, helping me with my own. I could tell she would have been a great mother; her movements and touch were so delicate, trying to make sure I was fed, I slept at least 10 hours a day, and I was taken proper care of.

In the meantime, Louvel was slowly adjusting to living around vampires, some of which would try their best to not attack him. He was careful with his existing and moving around the house, trying to avoid most of them. As he was the only one - apart from me - to not handle the cold weather well, he would spend most of his time inside the house, trying to be as much of a help as he could.

As for me and my pregnancy, everything was going quite smoothly. Apart from the constant blood cravings and the endless sleep hours, I got enough free time to practice my magic. Some days, energy would pump my whole body and I felt like I could move mountains; other days, I would feel so drained of life that all I wanted to do was lay down, close my eyes, and wait for the time to just pass.

But I would still derive energy from the ones I loved the most - my babies and the thought of Felix. Thanks to both the Denalis and the Cullens keeping me safe and calm, I managed to improve my magic to the point where I could easily travel through space, even with the babies in my belly. And though I had a curiosity to test my ability to travel through space, I wouldn’t take that risk as long as I was pregnant, but I would definitely want to test the waters after I gave birth.

It had been about two months now since the day I arrived at Denali, and all I could think about was the fact that my supposed due date was coming closer and closer, but I still couldn’t tell exactly when. My belly grew absurdly fast within a month and a half, almost two or three times the size it was when I came to Alaska, and I couldn’t explain why. Carlisle was even more clueless than I was on the matter, but he reassured me that, as long as the babies seemed to grow normally and sound healthy, everything would be okay, so I took his word for it.

It was just another day, walking around the Denali territory, being too bored to stay in the house, and feeling too much energy pumping through me to just walk around the house. I’d rather run a bit through the mountains, enjoying the crisp air, and the vastness of the snow-covered trees down at the plains, as the winter was slowly coming to an end, but not in Alaska. Here, it was still snowing pretty heavily, and though I could feel the cold in my bones, it also managed to comfort me, reminding me of Felix’s cold touch that somehow was filling my existence with warmth and endless love for him.

Everything happened too fast for me to realize what was actually going on. One moment I would be standing on a small snowy hill, looking over the cold nature around me, and the next I would be in complete pain, feeling every part inside me numb as the pain was concentrating on my abdomen and back. I could only feel my body fall, and I remembered looking towards the sky as I fell. I let out a scream of pain, trying to catch my breath and realize what was going on.

That was until I felt the wetness coming out of me, and I could smell the blood in the air. That was when I finally realized that I was going into labor. I was about to give birth, and I was up here, all alone, writhing in pain, and full of hopelessness. I didn’t know that this was how I would give birth; I didn’t know this would be how I would probably die.

In-between my screams and the streams of tears that stained both my face and the snow around me, my only wish was that I would be able to see Felix once again; that I could fall into his arms and never let go. And as my vision narrowed around me and I started seeing black, I could only hope that my babies knew how much I loved them, and how much I would fight for them if I made it out of here alive.

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