I hate this so much. I hate my writing. This isn't necessarily a crossover since there aren't any canon characters in this story. Well…. This is shit. Just ugh.
I figured Mo would be badass as a Hunter seeing as he's into parkour and wears a hoodie and all.
Disclaimer: Angel, Mo and MacCoy belong to Dance Central. Smokers, Hunters and Witches are all a part of L4D2.
MacCoy was cooling down after another bout of practice; Mo strolled in behind him and pulled him into a lopsided hug—their sides pressed carelessly together. "Ya rocked that shit, babe".
The blond bumped fists with the other, grinning something stupid, while his free fingers quickly slid under Mo's thin crew shirt. "Tell ya what else I'mma rock."
Amber eyes rolled in response but dark hands intertwined with pale ones and Mo leaned down to kiss him anyways. The couple was still in public much less in front of a set of very transparent glass doors—the whole front of the studio seemed to be made of that material sans the metal framing. Their bodies pressed closer, MacCoy shoving Mo onto the cushions of the lounge and crawling into his lap until the doors to the office swung open and a livid Angel stomped through their clouds of gay. MacCoy muttered a "dammit. And Mo flashed him an apologetic smile.
Though Angel often joked with them, a classic phrase that was used was "Get a room", which caused Mo to become flustered and stop his advances, which caused MacCoy's cockblocks , which resulted in at least an hour of whining. 'Coy was relieved, however, when the hand trailing his inner thigh coaxed him further into his lap and rested in a spot MacCoy was just slightly ticklish at. Mo tasted of mint gum and MacCoy could still taste the cool mint lingering on his breath while a chin softly dug into his shoulder, which he accommodated by leaning back and pressing their cheeks together lovingly.
"Ange, man, what it do?"
Ange glanced Mo's way, warms browns now icy, "Sorry to interrupt…again, but fuck this shit hurts. Paco bit me." Paco was a new recruit, a friend of Glitch's that the teenager begged for Mo to let join, which Mo did, but not without the kid earning his stripes first. He impressed Angel—handling parties and women a little too well for a child his age.
"What is he? Like ten?" MacCoy teased, fiddling with his Walkman.
The couple shared a laugh, snorting together like a pair of middle-schoolers.
A frown tugged at the corner of his lips and he scoffed, revealing the once white cloth now stained a dark red underneath the palms covering his neck.
"Oh,shit."
MoCoy Plz
Moans and hungry fingers were scraping across the sheet metal surrounding the shack they were currently holed up in and the noises were driving them insane. Music would've been considered a luxury at this point, it would've helped drowned the screaming and growling out. Dirty fingers hastily reloaded a clip, the sounds of the outside world grating his consciousness and making it hard to concentrate, but the low voice beside him asking if he was ready provided him with loose strength.
He shook his head 'no', blinking away frustrated tears—he'd never be ready for a life like this. Lips met for a second, a quick peck of the lips or risk death that was quite literally banging down their door.
"Ain't gonna make it, Mo." MacCoy hissed, surprised the shack they slept in held up for so long. "We don't even know where the fuck we are. The fuck are ya doin'?" He turned to the other, hysterical, eyes flickering from the cracks in the door to Mo clambering up bags of feed and boxes with a shovel.
"Just shut the fuck up and cover me." Mo brushed him off, digging into the roof with the spaded tool and succeeded on gutting it open. Their shitty barricade crumbled and three Infected rushed in, black-mouthed and undeniably hungry.
A couple more followed the sound of the gunshot but the two were already on the roof, Mo kicking down the boxes beneath them, crushing at least one and sealing their 'entrance'.
"Fuckfuckfuck. We're stuck, man, we're fuckin' stuck." MacCoy babbled, scanning their surroundings.
"We ain't stuck. There's a red door up there we jus' gotta run a lil' more."
The blond shook his head in exasperation, "Nah, man, nah. Look, I got another round left we can jus'…y'know…" he trailed off, stopping when Mo glared his way.
"Wastin' time, 'Coy."
He vaulted from the roof, stumbling once his feet touched the dead grass, and ordered the other to follow. MacCoy complied, albeit reluctantly, because he'd never want to live, much less die, without Mo.
Their trip was uneventful, the landscape open and wide—letting them spot their predators before they spotted them. MacCoy's nerves had returned to normal, as normal as they would be anyways, and he helped pluck off a few stragglers in the distance. Mo noted that his boyfriend broke under pressure, though he'd always known this since their projects in high school, before returning his guns and sights forward.
MacCoy finally spoke, although he didn't want to. "M'sorry."
"Ya always are. S'my fault anyways. I shoulda planned ahead better, but that freaky cryin' bitch wit' the claws, shit, man. Ya saw what Aubrey did to Ange? I panicked."
MacCoy laughed, but it sounded nothing like the one he used to possess—formerly a bright, dorky sound was now dry and hollow. He didn't laugh out of joy, but because the thought of Mo dropping his guard for even a moment seemed preposterous. "Panickin' is my job, Mo."
The B-boy hummed in quiet appreciation, throat too sore from lack of water to laugh, even if he wanted to, and he playfully shoved his lover in the shoulder.
They trudged on in silence until the Russian spoke again, his musings catching the better of him, "Even as one of 'em crazy claw bitches Aubrey was still pretty hot."
"You're sick," Mo replied in disdain.
"Not yet, but when I am, I hope I have kickass powers like that."
Mo halted to shoot off into the distance. There wasn't anything there; he simply needed to let a terrifying set of emotions slip out his body. Waste of ammo, yes, but it saves morale. "Quit talkin' like that."
That was the end of their conversation, MacCoy was too afraid to speak—Mo's burning aura clouding around him. He didn't have anything besides those sorts of thoughts, which was pathetic in its own way because they could've carried on about graffiti or breaking on any other given day. Life wasn't the same and they couldn't pretend that it was.
They finally reached their destination, eager to slip inside and away from the sun beating down on their backs. MacCoy immediately locked it shut, a Russian roulette of sorts because what was inside the building might be worse than what was on the outside, and joined Mo while he scoped the rooms.
Always have a partner. Never go in alone.
Their haven was a small barn, holding only one stable, and absolutely no useful supplies whatsoever. The shutters were closed, wood nailed haphazardly across diagonally. Mo was currently occupied with checking the loft, since it was higher ground, for a spot to rest. He bunched hay up by kicking it with his foot, hardly fazed by the black beetles that scurried around on occasion. Insects were the least of their troubles now. MacCoy's head poked up from the edge, his body leaning against the ladder, "Can't find no water."
Glancing his way with a solemn smile covering his face, Mo motioned towards an overturned bucket neighboring another filled with something. MacCoy's face lit up. "It's got water in it." The blond lunged towards it greedily, ready to dip his entire face in and suck the water up that way before Mo barred him with an arm, gently pushing him away. Before the Russian could protest, Mo waved a hand at the grime covering his hands and face before grabbing a shiny aluminum bowl; one that measured feed, and used it as the water's new medium.
Don't contaminate the water supply.
They found a large wooden trunk housing a bag of goat feed and chicken scratch and decided upon at least testing the latter—it appeared remotely edible at best. The corn kernels were too hard and the rest of the seeds were far too small to actually sate a human's huger, but it helped them survive and that's all that really mattered. Bellies full from water, after days of missing it, they leaned against each other for support.
"We ain't turned yet, but we're still animals," MacCoy started bitterly, "Drinkin' water wit' dead gnats in it and scramblin' fer bird seeds—we're fuckin' pathetic."
"Hey," the other wanted to deny his negativity but he couldn't—it was true. So he left his rebuttal at that because how was he supposed to defend their honor against that?
"Ya know I'm right," the blond confirmed, slouching further back against Mo, relaxing his entire weight on him.
There was a silence and they both found it a bit sickening because there wasn't supposed to be one. Noises always surrounded them their entire lives, more so during the apocalypse—the bawling witches and the guttural moans of common Infected plagued their thoughts. Mo finally answered him, not because he was concentrating on the next words he should speak, but because there was silence.
"We still have our humanity, 'Coy. We haven't turned our backs on each other and we've saved lives. It's called survival. Ain't like we're prancin' 'round wit' clubs and fur pelts."
"I killed my Grammaw."
Mo wasn't shocked by his statement, his jaw didn't drop, and he sure as hell didn't judge him as a fellow human. He'd seen it and he told MacCoy to do it.
Watching the news paid off, apparently, as a new disease oh-so-cleverly dubbed the Green Flu spread across Western borders. Mo was the first to warn MacCoy about it, something about the disease and the way people reacted not seeming right—eating each other and spitting up acid and such, and so he was the first to rush over to his apartment. Amber eyes found the goggled teen doting over his sick Grammaw, practically yanking tufts of hair out from stress. She caught the flu, an epidemic in her own home, but her grandson was as loyal as ever because blood was thicker than oil.
Less than an hour after the African American had arrived she died, gurgling up a viscous black substance even after she ceased breathing, and turned towards Mo with faded blue eyes rolled to the back of her head—head cocked to the side. It would be a lie if Mo said he didn't freak the fuck out, especially if his boyfriend was preparing more cold packs unaware that his Grandma died and then came back with a look on her face tittering on insanity. So when she lunged forward, with her gnarled hands cracking and mouth emitting god-awful screeches, he couldn't think of anything to do but throw her across the coffee table. As fate would have it, the dramatic bastard, the Russian had only seen half of their fight.
Naturally, the DJ took his family's side and threw a punch that was aimed towards Mo's face but only really hit his chest in a lame way, but the shock of the act was enough to cause him to stumble backwards with confusion and dread conquering his face. In the time it took for MacCoy to turn around, the woman had already recovered, and managed to grip his arms tightly—harder than she would've been able to when she was alive at her age. The look on the male's face was priceless and might've even been humorous had one not been considering the situation at hand.
"Grammaw?"
Mo wrestled MacCoy from her grip, the blue-eyed male still staring at her like a deer in headlights, before playing a sort of tetherball with the Infected—she'd make a grab at the pale B-boy and he'd shove her away while Mo caught her. "Ain't Grammaw no more," Mo grit out though he didn't know who or what she was anymore. Someone stumbled, something slipped and Mo was currently pinned under a voracious cannibal. Words were exchanged, a flash in time really, and a bat was swung. The aluminum weapon caved in her skull and MacCoy's psyche.
Mo wasn't certain if he was supposed to tug the other into an embrace; would it have been appropriate? He cautiously spoke an, "I'm sorry." MacCoy waved off the apology with the flick of his hand before staring down at it in a horrified shame. "I love ya too much. That's the problem."
"Ain't yo' fault," he muttered back, trying to toss in an ounce of teasing. He earned a bitter chuckle for his efforts.
"Somethin' ain't right," the Russian speculated. "Where're the moans and shit?"
Groaning half-heartedly, Mo left MacCoy to flop flat on his back while he scoped the surroundings through the slats of the shutters. The person who holed themselves up prior to their arrival must've been rushed or terrible with tools. Their barricade sucked ass. He couldn't see out the slats, the sun had fallen for the day already. He didn't even catch a glimpse of silvery eyes glowing in the dark.
"Can they plot and shit? Cuz if they can, that shit ain't right!"
Mo snapped irritably, "Shut yo' white ass up a second."
He stood too close to a poorly boarded window for far too long. A Smoker's tongue slithered through the cracks and smashed his body too enthusiastically for a meal against the wood, metal nails digging into his back and leaving rusty scratches.
They'd, once again, relaxed too much and had been careless. So now MacCoy was sitting over the ex-prankster hastily wrapping the last bits of gauze from their first aid kit around his middle. He'd long since cleaned it, Mo muffled his screams into his collarbone as the goggled male watched it bubble inside the deep lacerations. The slashes crusted up in yellowish brown splotches and anxious fingers picked at them. "Stop, ass. Yer gonna re-open it." 'Coy snapped, his nerves fried at this point.
Mo spent at least an hour moaning about how they itched and about how everything itched.
"We'll make it," he promised, leaning in to kiss the other softly. Mo backed against the cabinets, turning his face away. "Stop", he commanded, "I'll get you sick."
"I'm immune, 'member?" Mo still refused, not wanting to literally eat his face off because he wasn't immune. MacCoy leaned down again for his neck this time, placing a kiss there before resting his head in the spot.
"I'm sorry," his voice muffled by the skin. His knees were starting to hurt, having located himself in between Mo's bent legs, hands positioned on either sides.
"I don't wanna hurt you," he explained, allowing 'Coy to wrap his own limp arms over his back. The blond was warm, hot even, and Mo realized his temperature was declining fast. As if reading his mind, "Yer cold."
"Yea." They were both surprised by how casual the tone of this sort of conversation had taken. It had been like, "oh hey I'm dying but its okay."
"Ya ain't gonna make it," 'Coy stated, his head heavy on his friend's shoulder.
"Yea", he croaked out.
Wet warmth spread across Mo's shoulder and he straightened up best he could, pulling MacCoy closer. The hug turned awkward when the need to scratch his own arms behind MacCoy's back overcame him.
Constitutions went haywire and MacCoy gripped him tighter, causing Mo to groan in pain, and pressed their cheeks together. They stayed that way, MacCoy crying silently—less he made alerted a horde, until Mo couldn't bear through the pain any longer. Never pulling apart, only retracting arms so they could rearrange them—a set of arms laced around a neck while the other occupied the blonde's hips.
Lumps made a seemingly permanent residence in his throat and he repeatedly swallowed, trying to dislodge them—he didn't want his next few words to come out misconstrued.
"I love you, Mo", the statement drifted through the room proudly while he bit his lip to keep from hiccupping pathetically. "I know."
MacCoy snorted playfully, "You ass." That resulted in Mo chuckling himself before they both giggled quietly with their tear-stained faces buried in each other's embrace. After the laughter subsided, the pleasant sensation almost making Mo's painful gashes feel like a dull aches, Mo moved to kiss his boyfriend's goggles, halting when he spotted bits of gore still plastered between the ridges on the nose and lenses.
"What?" Worry filled MacCoy's voice and Mo want sure if it was because he might die any moment now or if MacCoy was still self-conscious with the way he looked.
"Nothin'," Mo reassured softly, slipping his thumbs under the elastic of 'Coy's goggles and removing them. Mumbling a protest, Mo promptly shut him off by pressing their foreheads together.
"Ya don't wanna see how ugl the world is anyways."
Seconds later, MacCoy has dark wrists pinned against the wall and lips were desperately mashing together. His wrists aren't released even when they part for air and Mo mutters, "I love ya 'Coy," over and over again. The grip is relinquished, however, when foreheads knock lightly together again and they take the time to kiss each other properly. Trembling fingertips lazily slide down Mo's still-pressed-against-the-wall forearms until they reach elbows and settle for stroking his ribs. Mo lets go of a pleased sigh; as he's tracing circles into the blonde's lower back his bottom lips is bitten. MacCoy's so skinny now that he almost believes he's trying to eat him to gain nourishment. The toprocker probes his tongue with his and yanks him closer until Mo starts grating his back against the sharp corners of the wooden chest.
"Hey, man, ya aight?" MacCoy's voice is still shaky and his breathing was still hard and heavy as he peered at Mo through concerned blues.
"My back itches," Mo grumbled, reaching an arm behind him to scratch at it, only to curse in pain.
"I call cockblock," he jested, both knowing full well Mo wasn't in any condition to actually do this—which kinda sucked. Hollywood was full of lies.
Mo didn't take the joke lightly, staring forlornly at the ground, "Sorry?"
"Nah, s'cool. Fer realz." I wasn't even thinkin' 'bout that…at least right now…" MacCoy trailed off before starting back up again, "Don't wanna hurt'cha. I was jus' messin'."
Mo brightened considerably at this, "I'll forgive ya if ya scratch my back."
"Yer really somethin'," 'Coy muttered under his breath, fingers working under the hem of his ragged hoodie and shirt to scratch there. Maybe their idle chatter would help ease their minds busy—mainly MacCoy's.
A dumb smile worked its way across Mo's face, nearly stretching ear to ear at the lovely touch. "Up." Noses pressed together, both smiling now, a treasure that was so rare nowadays—Mo's stupid grin being contagious. So MacCoy complied, fingers inching up and trailing a column down each time. This continued on for a long stretch while Mo occasionally guided pale hands with simple commands, both trapped in a quiet bubble that both were all too aware could burst at any moment. Moans and growls had started back up after a time, though it barely registered.
Blunt nails came across a small collection of inflammations along his shoulder blades. True they hadn't taken a shower in a good week or two but it was still gross—feeling like a cluster of grapes. He purposely avoided the area only to come into contact with others. Disgusted, he pulled away. "Aw, dude, fuckin' sick. Ya got the mumps or bad acne or somethin'" MacCoy shivered, recoiling and wiping his hands on his sweatpants. "They're all over my arms too. I'm so itchy."
"Ya already knew?" MacCoy asked disbelievingly.
"It wasn't all that important."
MacCoy glared at him and Mo avoided his gaze, begging him to drop it. And he does, but now there's this tense atmosphere, so unlike the one from earlier.
When Mo leaves in search of more food because MacCoy's crying belly is making his chest ache he tells him that he better be there when he returns. MacCoy didn't want him to leave, because he doesn't believe him when he speaks his reasoning, but grumbles and dumps himself in the nest Mo had made for them. MacCoy kisses him one last time, trying to memorize the taste of Mo hidden under birdseed and days without proper brushing.
MoCoyPlz
MacCoy's sleeping when a Hunter slips in, catching onto the scent of the blond, unsure if hunger or something deeper down and more meaningful than instincts brought him to this place. He launches his body towards 'Coy with the strength of his back legs and lands with a barely audible thud. MacCoy doesn't stir. He's probably cried himself to sleep if the sight of him clutching the crowbar Mo parted him with (they spent the last of their ammo on the Smoker) to his chest was any sign. What a pitiful teddy bear that was.
A curious nose sniffed at him, at his legs and chest, and then it moves to his open mouth where drool is slowly spilling over and he laps at it. The taste of his prey overrides his senses and he's frozen to the spot until the blond moves slightly, the crowbar clanging to the floor, and smiles sleepily up at him. His arms wrap around the hooded Infected. His tongue slips into the creature's too-close-for-comfort mouth and his eyes reflexively shoot open as he tasted rot—a mixture of old puke and blood. They exchanged screeches and howls and 'Coy shoves blindly at him until he is pinned to the ground. Though his vision is blurred by his lack of goggles and the tears streaming down the sides of his face he recognizes the creature that used to be Mo, or at least something that wore Mo's clothes.
Now his ex-lover is hollow-eyed and blood crusts every orifice, even still dripping from his eye sockets. Talons dig into his shoulders, nearly as long and sharp as a Witch's and he screams—unsure if he should fight back—he wouldn't be able to even if he functioned properly. The tips of the Hunter's claws ripped his clothes and punctured the flesh underneath, the pain feeling like that initial pinprick when a person donates blood, then transforming into a searing pain like burning acid.
The blond is hysterical by now, thrashing and knowing that there's no escape. Teamwork was the key to fighting one of these but what happens to a person when your only partner was the one attacking?
Mo took pleasure in his pain, maniacal cackles filling the barn house. MacCoy could feel everything at this point, the heat of his rancid breath, the hay digging into his back, and the striations of his muscles tearing apart. Howls of joy ricocheted around the room as the creature rocked back and forth on his heels, snapping his teeth dangerously close to the dancer's face. Peals of laughter countered frightened yelps and a claw swiped away the rest of his threadbare tracksuit in a single swipe; flesh joined the crumpled heap of fabric on the floor.
All their screaming attracted a horde that is ruthlessly banging against the barn.
The damn things teasing him and so he hopes it kills him before the horde rushes in and tears him apart alive all at once. Dulling senses feel the poke of a sharp tongue flick around the lacerations, growling in contentment. The Hunter sniffs around his torso, bloodied nose leaving a fine trail of muddy gore and Mo pauses to press a bleeding ear to his heartbeat. It's thrumming erratically, which pleases the Hunter as he makes a sound that almost sounds like dry chuckle before his claws go back down to trace MacCoy's bony hips.
Even though it was blurry to begin with, his vision is long since gone and his ears are ringing. Everything feels like it's made of molten lava. What could possibly be his torso, he cannot comprehend his surrounding too well anymore, is dug into with giddy delight. The cackling stops for a moment and he feels himself being lifted into the air; his limp appendages flapping uselessly. Hungry screeches are heard over the deafening sound of ringing.
Even as an undead running solely on instinct Mo was still as possessive as ever.