Four Zombieland Fics
So, I've been writing porn and almost porn straight through since I saw the (FUCKING AMAZING) movie. Figured these ones didn't warrant their own post, so here's a collection of short slashfics.
Title: Lying
Author: Everett
Rating: Hot (For bad words and insinuation)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings: Nada
Word Count: 437
Summary:
“Fucked her in the back of a fed-ex truck, eh kid?”
A long, slow drawl, slight twang, more than a hint of laughter, stupid fucking accent with a predatory edge to it as fingers slid up the groove in his back, between the ridges of vertebrae, enough pressure to promise.
“Uhn- well”, breathless, not uncommon, speechless, very uncommon. He talked to himself, sometimes. A lot actually, because he had no one else to talk to and it helped him keep himself on track, keep his thoughts in order, lay everything out, sensible. When he did have other people to talk to, well, he kept it up, an endless stream of consciousness trying desperately to cover fear and discomfort and agitation and so much more. Never succeeding.
Speechless didn’t seem to hide it either, though. God, he was transparent. A fucking jellyfish. Shit, fireflies.
“Well?” a smirk again, breath puffed hot against his ear, a strange dissonance between the mocking and the hands that were-
“Well- I mean, ah, just,” worrying his lower lip between his teeth, brow furrowed as the first hint of teeth scraped along his neck. Shouldn’t think that was hot, not when zombies were-wait, no, just shouldn’t think it was hot because god damnit, Yosemite Sam-
“I think you mean you just made up Miss Beverly Hills because you didn’ want me to think you were as big of a bitch as you are, right kid?”
God that word again, kid, that was wrong, right? Shouldn’t hear that when one thumb slid through the belt loop of your pants and the other hand pressed you forward against the edge of the counter, points of contact reminding you that you didn’t really mind that much. Or, part of you didn’t mind, and lets be honest, higher functions shut down at the same time as speech processors and-damnit damnit damnit.
“Not entirely, I mean, I did-“
Fingers slid around, gripped into his side, a bit too hard, texture of calluses leaving little bruises, tongue and teeth at the junction where his jaw became his ear became his neck and, okay-
“Lyin’?”
“Okay-ah- yeah, lying!”
“Good.”
Self satisfied, smugness heavy, a grin he could fucking feel, he could actually feel on his skin.
“Weeeell then, lets git goin’.”
For a brief second he wanted to ask where, because he was starting to think he might like this place they were hypothetically going to, but then the hands were gone and his fingers were left curled around the edge of the counter and the bastard was fucking whistling while he walked away, and god damnit. Just-
“Damnit Tallahassee.”
Title: Soft Spot for Stupid
Author: Everett
Rating: Hot (Moar bad words and a bit of dirtiness)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings: Nada
Word Count: 521
Summary:
He had a thing for Twinkies.
That probably should have been a clue, a soft spot for things that were soft, delicate centers protected by shells that weren't that much tougher. Pale and weak. Easy to break, easy to ruin, easy to fuck up if you weren’t careful with them.
So yeah, it should have been a clue. A play on words, at the least. Stupid innuendo. It didn't even occur to him. He wasn't good with stuff like that. Stuff like... well, yeah, the most hardcore he got was tucking hair behind ears. Using tongue was heavy shit. Innuendo was way too far off the deep end for him, way, way too far. So, no, yeah. Still, probably should have had sharper instincts by now, how did he survive the zombie apocalypse this long? Then again, even if zombies only had [i]one thing[/i] on their minds it wasn't the same [i]thing[/i]. Actually… well, damn, maybe closer to the same thing than he thought. His wisdom modifier was low, wasn't it? Ha, stupid reference, as if he ever managed to get into D&D, too many other people, nerds who didn't shower and had no concept of personal space and left cheese dust and germs wherever they went. Still, he missed the clues; it was no surprise that the whole thing hit him like a bus. Like a baseball bat to the skull. Tallahassee was good at that, though. Unpredictable, he didn't have a set of rules you could list off, the only thing that the crazy bastard believed in suggested that maybe there was a reason that he hadn't seen this coming.
Still, those fucking twinkies. So the hands that were firm but not rough, peeling back clothes like wrappers, and the teeth shouldn't have come as such a surprise. The sounds probably should have. He hadn't made noises like that since he was sixteen and had a panic attack during a high school football game (the only one he'd ever attended) whose half-time show had freaking clowns, what kind of entertainment were clowns for a sports game? Not quite the same noise, actually, needy more than fearful. Entirely different cause. And he was in way over his head here, drowning, he was pretty sure. It would explain why he couldn't catch his breath.
At least the laughter which served Tallahassee's only response to the embarrassing noises sounded breathless, too. There was that. At least he wasn't the only one here getting totally screwed up, whose lungs didn't work right and whose fingers seemed leaden and uncontrollable, eventually giving up on being coordinated and settling for grabbing and bunching into the front of Tallahassee’s shirt, pulling down.
Shit, probably shouldn't settle for that. Scratch that, totally not pulling, trying to get up, that was it. Getting a grip, was all.
Yeah right, no chance of that. He didn't even have a rule for this. Rule 33 - Expect to get molested when you break your own damn rules and decide to pal around with a crazy bastard with an accent and a twinky obsession.
“Damnit, Rule 34 - Do that again.”
Title: Full of Surprises
Author: Everett
Rating: Fire (for sexxins)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings: Nada
Word Count: 875
Summary:
The first time Tallahassee surprised him it was simply by existing. Him just being there was a shock to Columbus; he hadn’t seen another person, at least another live person, in a lot more than few weeks. The last time he saw anyone was, geez, more than a month, blocks away on the ruined streets of a small Texas town, running from a group of hungry undead. For the briefest moment he considered going to help them, to keep them alive, not being alone, but it had been less than a second before the list reminded him of how many rules he would be breaking. Don’t be a hero being the key perpetrator, but of lot of lesser ones as well. By the time the entire list of infractions scrolled through his mind the person and their pursuers had disappeared around a corner, followed immediately by a sharp, soul-shattering scream. He hadn’t known whether it had been a man or a woman, young or old. Columbus booked it, cardio, powering him back to the car, where he checked the backseat and buckled up before driving off.
He still felt guilty about it sometimes.
The second time Tallahassee surprised him was moment later, when he didn’t shoot him, instead actually offering him to give him a ride. Of course, if he had shot him it would have been pretty pathetic, with Columbus holding out his thumb and shaking like a Chihuahua. He wasn’t surprised when Tallahassee called him a bitch, couldn’t even argue the point, which was, yeah, okay, a bit sad. He was more surprised he was willing to take him as far as he was.
The name thing made sense. He still didn’t know Tallahassee’s real name. It wouldn’t have fit him as well, anyway. That name belonged to someone else.
The third time was strangely telling. Do lions limber up before taking down a gazelle? Columbus had never thought of it like that, which, everything considered made a lot of sense. He’d never thought of himself as a lion. He knew very well that on the predator-prey hierarchy, Columbus was well in prey territory. He bet anything that gazelle limbered up. Checked their metaphorical backseats. It was probably the most noticeable difference between him and Tallahassee, which was saying something considering exactly how different they were. Tallahassee wasn’t a victim. He wasn’t running. He wasn’t just surviving. Tallahassee was hunting, following prey. He was living.
Columbus had fallen in with a dangerous son of a bitch. He though it should bother him more than it did.
The fourth time should have come as less of a surprise than it did. Tallahassee was an artist. He’d perfected his lack of technique to a point that there was a damn good chance he was the most dangerous, crazy, reckless bastard alive today. No one else collected random shit like he did; no one else used a banjo like a fucking dinner bell, then a baseball bat. So it shouldn’t have been a surprise that he just threw the stuff down. No repeats for him. A new show every day.
Fifth time was when they met Little Rock and Wichita. Columbus though he’d be more heartless than that, thought he’d go through with it. Almost-sort of-kind of wished he had , standing around feeling naked and helpless without his weapons on the side of the road, watching the girls drive away with the truck that served as a temporary home.
Tallahassee wasn’t worried, he was pissed.
Sixth time Columbus had to add a new rule.
Seventh had him gasping for air, fingers of one hand dug into the wiry muscles of Tallahassee’s’ lower arm, leather of the Hummer's backseat sticking to his back as rough fingers grazed his right thigh, his left foot thrown over the back of the seat haphazardly, wordlessly thankful for all that stupid stretching as his spine arched up unnaturally, and his other hand wrapped around himself, uneven strokes urged on by the string words and half-hearted threats spilling in broken chains from Tallahassee’s mouth when it wasn’t’ busy elsewhere, the older man’s hands otherwise occupied, holding him down and opening him up, slower, torturously so, more relaxed than Columbus would have though, a steady burn, strangely gentle but for the nipping teeth and the talking, which on anyone else would have been labeled as dirty but coming from Tallahassee just sounded natural. Growling at him to just do it already, let go you neurotic bastard. The sounds Columbus was making were less intelligible, a strange shift as Tallahassee babbled and Columbus was silent he tried to catch his breath without success. He thinks he surprises Tallahassee when he bites back, finally, fingers digging in painfully and breath hitching as he finally loses control.
Eighth time surprises him most. Foreheads pressed together as they struggled to get enough oxygen in their lungs, trying to use the same air and there wasn’t enough of it, the older man’s eyes closed, breathing heavy through his nose when all of a sudden his hands are tangled back into Columbus’s hair, fingers sliding through over-long strands, pushing them back, tucking them behind his ears thoughtlessly, and Columbus could just cry, because seriously, how was that fair?
Title: A Bit of a Bitch
Author: Everett
Rating: Fire (for xxx pornings)
Characters/Pairings: Tallahasse/Columbus
Warnings: Owchies
Word Count: 2,066
Summary:
So the thing about Tallahassee is that he isn’t like, insatiable. He’s not constantly on the edge. For all his random, violent outbursts he doesn’t really seem to need to, well, fuck, all that often. Says it as crudely as anyone, leers all impressive, but he doesn’t really seem to need it. Probably why he avoided the question, fucking ages ago in his old Escalade. He’s, god, it’s weird to think of him like this, but he’s really too mature for all that barely controlled teenage hormone bullshit. Weird to fucking think of it because the guy once laughed when Columbus let slip the word poop. So he stops thinking they’re going to have hot, dirty, just survived a zombie attack, pushed against the hood of the truck where anyone could see him, sex.
Which sort of sucks because he is a fucking teenager and he is edgy and he is imma-fucking-ture, and he thinks it would be sort of nice to have grill marks on his knees and to hear the warm ping of the engine through the hood, feel it under his hands. Thoughts like that weird him out a little, because he liked to think of himself as more cultured and less sex-crazed than most guys his age, but goddamnit, really? Tallahassee’s the one who brought up the whole prospect of slightly scary, really strange, definitely unconventional sex in the first place. If pinning him to the floor of the hummer and growling obscenities into his ear while he jacked him off counted as bringing something up. It totally counted, he totally was the one who brought it up and then left Columbus hanging. Like, just fucking hanging off the edge there, twitchy and stressed and it’s not like he can just give himself a hand because he can’t go anywhere alone on account of the zombies.
So yeah, a little anxious lately. A little jumpier than usual, which makes Tallahassee sigh and roll his eyes and look all incredibly put-upon, as if he was the one who was stuck with Columbus and not the other way around. And that’s more annoying than anything, because he feels like a fucking burden already, when they’re standing in the broad isle of a hardware store, and Tallahassee is liberally spreading his talents around with weed-whackers and buzz-saws and, in one amusing instance, a table grinder. Columbus feels like he’s just there to watch, which, yeah, it sucks a bit. Not that he’s really complaining, it’s a great show, greatest show on earth. Like if monster trucks had sex with ice-skaters and then performed in a stadium that was made of fire and ringed in tigers. It’s pretty much better than that, and marginally less believable. And after that Tallahassee laughs so hard he falls over, looking around himself with pride and a good lot of pleasure and Columbus gives him a hand, pulls him to his feet, makes a comment that’s just the right mixture of sarcastic and awkward and truthful. And Tallahassee grins and says something in that retarded way he does, and grabs some shit on the way out that Columbus isn’t even going to try to guess the uses for.
That night they fuck, and Columbus wishes he could use the word “again” but he couldn’t because he’s pretty sure that a hand job in the back of a truck doesn’t count as fucking or every 13 year old boy with an adventurous friend would have been able to claim fuck-ery. It’s slow and slick and Tallahassee growls the whole damn time, and Columbus makes some interesting noises, and it’s, actually yeah, it’s sort of awesome, pretty much totally, but he was hoping for something a little less…
He thinks, maybe, he needs to remind Tallahassee that, while he may be a little bitch, he’s not a girl. Because the hand on his leg is pressing just this side of hard enough, and there’s more tongue than teeth, and it’s so fucking slow and nice and Jesus, Columbus feels like he just got taken to prom, which isn’t exactly what he was anticipating, or, to be honest, what he was hoping for when the rough, waterproof carpet of the hummer pressed into his back the first time.
So it’s about a week later and Columbus is all fucking keyed up again, all neurotic and flighty and fucking, just, again, completely about to lose it. And Tallahassee acts like he doesn’t have a fucking care in the world and can’t tell that Ohio is about to jump off a fucking cliff if he doesn’t get someone’s hand on his dick posthaste. So when they stop at a cheap ass, skanky motel (Tallahassee’s laughing, something about wanting to get his hands on a fuck-ton of pillow mints) he’s a little less careful than usual, a little more reckless as he shoots a zombie from a closer distance than usual. Not surprisingly he misses the one hiding in the fucking laundry chute. Makes a strangled noise as he tries to pull back, and Tallahassee is there quicker than anything, drags the thing back by its shoulder and throw it against a wall, fucking kicks it in the head when it hits the floor, and again before he’s satisfied, grey matter clinging to the toe of his boots, nostrils flared and glaring back at Columbus like he’s the stupidest sonovabitch he’s ever seen. And he just snarls at him not to wander the fuck off again while they clean out the rest of the rooms, door by door, checking closets, checking showers, locking doors behind them. And when they’ve covered every nook and cranny of the place Tallahassee throws his bag down on a bed and slams the door in Columbus’s face like he deserved it.
Couple hours later, fingernails chewed off (after thoroughly washing, disinfecting, and re-washing hands), Columbus pushes open the door to the room like he owns it, or, at the very least, like he knows the owner and is pretty sure they won’t mind him just walking in because hey, he’s expected right? Shuffles over to where Tallahassee’s leaned up against the headboard, cleaning a knife and pretending he doesn’t notice the kid come in. He’s quiet for a moment, watching the guy with the look on his face that said he’s thinking hard before reaching forward and pulling the knife out of the man’s hand, ignoring his immediate (and a little pathetic) protest, setting it on the side table and out of reach. Stares at Tallahassee’s face and apologizes for trying to get himself killed. Ignores the annoyance painted on the man’s face, because he knows by now that as much of a crazy, suicidal bastard as Tallahassee seems to be, he worries about other people a lot more than he lets on. Fucking name thing didn’t work as well as he’d like to think. Then Columbus apologizes again, and Tallahassee can’t help but ask what the kid did now. He says he hasn’t done anything yet, not a goddamn thing. Which was a confusing and possibly maddening thing to say, and it distracted Tallahassee enough that he actually seems surprised when he’s on his lap, pushing the stupid jacket off without asking and straddling his hips like he did this all the fucking time. As if. Would probably be a lot less crazy if he did. Gets Tallahassee marginally less dressed and then says, perfectly fucking straight faced, that he’d like it very much if Tallahassee fucked him like a little bitch before he went batshit and got them killed.
And the way the he says it, his knees folded under him, toes turned in, eyebrows raised in that sincere fucking way has Tallahassee a bit fucked up in the head, so he pushes the kid back hard enough to knock him over, keeps his hand planted in the center of Columbus’s chest as he gets his legs under himself and has his hands on the fly of the kid’s pants before Columbus has a chance to say anything fucking stupid. Real quick. And he’s gasping for breath all of a sudden when Tallahassee glowers down at him and tells him to turn the fuck over, and, okay, yes sir, right away, fuck. And Tallahassee doesn’t bother to take his goddamn shirt off, just rides it up his back far enough to scratch back down again, leaving angry red lines that felt, okay, yeah, they fucking hurt, but in the best way possible. And broad hands are pulling down his pants, pressing his hips into the bed quickly with the hand that’s not planted on Columbus’s neck pressing just that side of hard enough and, okay, yes, definitely a bitch. That was a little spit-fuck noise, he’s pretty sure. Then the hand that was pressing is pulling, getting Columbus’s knees under him, keeping his upper body pinned to the bed so he can smell the musty sheets and feel the press of scratchy, cheap, cotton-polyester blend against his face and he pants roughly when Tallahassee runs his tongue down his ass and presses a spit-slicked finger (spit-fuck, really, Jesus) in without warning, kneeling over him, denim-clad hard-on pressed into his ass as he fucked him open almost dry, the second finger in far before Columbus is used to the first one, stretching and probing with a little growl, fast until he finds what he’s looking for, makes Columbus swear, shitfuckbabyfuckingcocklickfuckfuck, forces a third finger in, and goddamn he had long, perfect fucking fingers and Columbus thinks he should and fucking limbered up for this because he’s not sure he’ll ever walk again. And the fingers are gone and Columbus can see far enough behind him to catch Tallahassee spit in his fucking palm, and, oh god that should worry him. Fucking germs and shit, but instead his breath hitches pants a little louder as Tallahassee presses his dick, fucking blunt pressure, and yeah, apparently spit-fuck, hard and slow and dragging into him and puts more pressure on his neck, holding himself up by holding Columbus down, and his other hand is digging into his hip, swears under his breath and the pressure on his neck is gone and Tallahassee’s got both hands on his ass like, oh, like he’s just going to fucking spread him open and get-
And when he bottoms out Columbus hears himself making this harsh little whimpering cries, rubs his face into the bedspread, thinks about getting his arms under himself, but then Tallahassee is pulling out, leans forward as he pushes back in, growls at Columbus to fucking touch himself, to fuck himself while Tallahassee fucks him ,and yeah, Tallahassee was fucking genetically engineered for dirty talk, Columbus is pretty sure of that, and arches forward into his own touch and, oh god, then Tallahassee is there and he’s pressing against-
After that Columbus isn’t quite sure what’s happening but it’s all very good shit that he wishes he could remember for later. Because Tallahassee is biting and urging and it’s hard and fast and hot, and fucking messy, and Columbus is pretty sure his face is going to have, like the bed version of rug burns, and his own strokes are uneven and lost and he comes so hard he actually screams, would have collapsed except that Tallahassee’s hands are holding his hips and pulling him up and back and he pants ragged breaths onto the center of Columbus’s back when he comes, a groan and forgotten rhythm. Pulls out roughly and lets Columbus fucking collapse onto the bed, presses his forehead into the kid’s shoulder blades and flexes his fingers.
“Fuck,” Columbus finally manages to say. He’s thought a lot about the act, but not a lot about what to fucking say.
“In-deed,” Tallahassee drawls, taking a deep breath, steadying himself more easily than Columbus could hope to before he continued, “Just- fuck kid, don’t do that shit again.”
“I don’t think I’ll need to, actually,” Columbus mutters, thinking there was a good chance that Tallahassee’d gotten the message, that Columbus was a stupid fucking horny idiot teenager, even if he didn’t always seem like it.
Tallahassee wondered if perhaps he should have just let the kid know he’d wanted him to ask for it in the first place. Would have solved a lot of problems. Probably would have defeated the purpose, though.