First time posting something walking dead on my insta (obviously it’s Richonne)
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Current project: mining some Walking Dead clippings while making some custom keychains!
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its the way that no one really fights for jacqui to leave the cdc besides t-dog for me. like andrea, laurie, and carol, were friends with her and didnt say a thing about it. like i understand that they knew it was her choice and that the world is fucked but still even just a WORD to her before they all run away idk. rubs me the wrong way. she was such a sweetheart i really think she couldve thrived and grown so much.
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OH. MY. FUCK. GLEN LIVES IN SEASON 6. BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWAHHHHHHH THATS MY BOY EEYES. GO BACK TO UR WIFE PLEASE ASIAN BOY GO ASIAN BOY
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zombies zombies zombies
Engaging in multiple accounts of the zombie apocalypse at once is proving vastly entertaining.
Walking dead folks can’t seem to go more than one conversation without threats of violence and I’m not sure how they survived to 11(?) seasons at that rate. The level of animosity is about what I remember and tbh one reason why I never made it all the way through the main series, hearing really good things about the spin offs though so… when I give up on the main series rewatch might check them out. Zombies – well, can’t beat a good walking dead hoard scene, and there’s bangers bookending season 2. Did get around to watching a few episodes of tales and loving the one potentially set in the more distant future with the researcher and the woman who’s trying to resettle the area a part of a group, mostly because I liked learning more about the zombies and looking at survival strategies/architecture than dealing with yet more interpersonal conflicts.
Valley of the Dead, I fear I’m not knowledgeable enough about the Spanish Civil War to fully appreciate the nuances of the situation but captain guy has so far sassed everyone, stated that he doesn’t believe in nuns because they exist, was very polite while yelling to be untied as the first hoard twitched alive with human flesh aforethought and has so far headbutted a friend-of-Franco judge offscreen and his… communist counterpart (?) onscreen. Zombies suitably freakily emerging from the woods, suspect they’re something to do with the gas cannisters Nazi’s were throwing around earlier, very good twitchy-snarly action from the zombie actors and fun debates about what on earth’s going on and whether the zombies are alive. Not that it’s stopping them from shooting them.
Z nation – okay so I’m not rewatching this one right now but I am watching heated rivalry and remembering that one of their main characters was a hockey player when this all kicked off so…
I would not survive the All of Us Are Dead zombies. Too fast. Finding the teenagers a fun mix of co-operative, problem-solving and flat out murderous – very much doubt me and my classmates at school could have measured up, though also I seem to recall that they painted our classroom’s sliding windows open so we’d all have died anyway from being unable to secure our location. Also really loving those shots they do of things going to hell in one place then panning up/over to where things are currently normal but will shortly be going to hell. The adults… well, I can’t say I’d do better under the circumstances.
Am 100% in love with the zomvivor opening credits. I had to stop replaying them before they gave me nightmares. Zombies actually seem fascinating here instead of just a horror-monster to be survived – I think it’s the assorted characters making them so which I’m guessing is because they’re all uni students of mixed disciplines who are all bringing their knowledge/skills to the table? They’ve linked behaviour to heatwaves and are about to go off with someone’s video camera to find out where they’re all going to at night. I’m pretty sure it’s going to end in tears, but very curious to see what’s going on there. Everyone (well, most people) also seems really up for communicating and co-operating right down to evenly splitting spoils from a vending machine – this is to the best of my knowledge my first Thai show so as with Valley of the Dead feeling a bit culturally blind, but it makes for such a wonderful change from the walking dead where everyone’s no more than three wrong words away from violence.
Kingdom. Again with the running zombies, 0/10 survival rating for me, I’d be dead, please someone take my reanimated corpse out before I hurt anyone – terribly impressed that the mc’s can run in full robes without losing their hats. All that said the sequence of the town falling was one I did used to stick on on the ipad and prop up where I could see when I was running on the treadmill last year, so clearly fast zombies and people running for their lives in floor length robes was motivational in some way. Now wondering what would happen if these guys facing the plant-based zombies and the last of us guys with their fungal-based zombies could swap notes. Also loving that we see ordinary people trying to help each other in this one and a variety of survival strategies. Finding the level of co-operation interesting as well – as with the Spanish guys there’s political struggles muddying the waters and a few bad idea betrayals going down but it feels… like there’s also more willingness to find a solution as a group than there was with the walking dead folks, somehow?
Ashin of the North has been added to the list of ladies I will happily cheer on but never, ever under any circumstances would want to meet. One day I need to try and watch her taking down an entire army camp with zombies and arrows with the light adjusted so I can see it in all its majesty.
On the literary front thinking of re-reading world war z and this is the way the world ends again – read them both to death and got bored of them last time I was on a zombie kick but haven’t been near them in years so might be time to dive back in. Same with the wwz comics – remember really loving them then drifting away from them so might see about tracking them down. In the meantime, over in The Corpse War of 1793-land, the British army is preparing to go head to head with the undead of a reanimated town despite having lost all but a literal handful of assorted soldiers who were stationed there/waded in to sort out the situation when they thought it was the French or something, and there’s… about a quarter of the book left. What could possibly go wrong? I might have spent the early parts of this book mentally jumping up and down going ‘come on! For God’s sake, man, pull yourself together! The Train to Busan people were not having these problems!’, but in fairness it was also the first piece of zombie media to give me actual nightmares in… 15ish years? Pretty sure Sharpe would have been eaten by now given that the protagonist has so far survived by very sensibly running away and hiding on roofs/behind walls. Especially as these ones seem super durable and don’t stop even when massive head trauma is inflicted? The narrator basically had to deconstruct one to make it stop.
As for the ex-heroes of LA – really wish we’d got more than 5 books of superheroes vs zombies, but loving the re-read. Actually the first read? I’ve listened to them as audiobooks before but never read them, and as such completely missed that it was MidKnight and not Midnight and other small details. Anyway, classic slow moving zombies, feel like I’d have a chance in this world as a result and more importantly they have working plumbing and electricity, so I might actually want to. Could do without the supervillain who’s able to control zombies but on the other hand we get St George – and I have Questions about his beard having reread the scene of people lining up with bolt cutters and pruning shears to give his super-strong hair a cut. Does he just not grow one? Is he secretly taking an industrial sander to his face every morning? I feel like if he had a full on hasn’t-been-trimmed-in-two-years-because-it-takes-too-much-effort-to-cut beard it would have come up, if only because it’d have been grabbed in a fight. Also, they’re gearing up for council elections with one of the forerunners being super-phobic. As with the British army over in the corpse war not sure what I’d be expecting them to do differently and I certainly don’t have a better idea, but we’re in solid ‘what could possibly go wrong?’ territory again. Also (also also) now wondering what the assorted falls-from-grace over the past decade and a bit would do to the points scoring system of famous ex’s and what Andrew might be worth if the Brits had a similar system with the royal family…
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I’m rewatching the walking dead from the beginning. Andrea would have absolutely been a scientologist. She finds the sketchiest person and latches onto them immediately. And she’s so fucking mean about it. I hate her so much 😑😮💨
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We’ve lived in WWIII for 5 years now…
And all I want is a Bridgerton/Walking Dead crossover.
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We Are Christs’ Workmanship
And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience— among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind. But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ—by grace you have been saved— and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, so that in the coming ages he might show the immeasurable riches of his grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. For by grace you have been saved through faith. And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God, not a result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them. [Ephesians]
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Waiting can be sweeter
Timeline: pre-apocalypse. Dating, pre-move-in
Zack opened the apartment door before you could knock twice.
He was barefoot, in gym shorts and a tank that had definitely seen three too many workouts, hair still damp from a shower. Behind him, the TV was already on something stupid and loud.
“There he is,” he said, stepping back and sweeping an arm dramatically. “Our local fashion god. Please don’t judge my entire existence when you see the state of our couch.”
You snorted, holding up the bottle of whiskey and the paper bag in your hands.
“I already judged your existence,” you said, brushing past him. “The couch is extra.”
“You see what I live with?” I called from the kitchen. “He’s been here five seconds and I’m already being emotionally abused.”
You turned the corner into the open living room/kitchen space, and I actually felt my chest tighten for a beat.
You’d dressed like you weren’t trying, which meant you’d tried.
Black skinny jeans that made your legs look even longer, a soft, loose red t-shirt that slid just a little off one shoulder, showing a clean line of pale collarbone. Boots. Hair styled, but not overly done. Lip gloss that caught the light when you smirked.
“Hi,” you said, that casual, dangerous way you do.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and came around the island.
“Hey.”
I bent down and kissed you—quick, just a brush of mouths, nothing that would make Zack start heckling yet. You still went slightly up on your toes to meet me, tall as you are.
“You brought gifts,” I said, nodding at the bag.
“Whiskey and garlic knots,” you replied. “I know how to speak to both halves of your brain.”
Zack whistled.
“Marry him,” he said. “Tonight.”
“Shut up,” I told him.
He just grinned and padded back toward the couch.
The apartment was… lived-in. Two guys in their thirties sharing a space in D.C.—cheap art on the walls, workout gear stacked in a corner, controller cords on the coffee table, the faint smell of laundry detergent and cologne and whatever air freshener Zack had gotten on sale.
You never looked uncomfortable in it.
You set the bottle on the counter and peeked into the pot on the stove.
“What did you make?”
“Chicken and vegetables,” I said. “Actual food, not just takeout. I’m trying to impress you.”
“Trying,” Zack repeated pointedly from the couch.
You covered the pot again and looked up at me.
“It smells good,” you said. “You get points.”
I leaned back against the counter, letting myself just look at you for a second. You caught it.
“Don’t stare,” you said. “You’ll make me shy.”
“That’s a lie,” I said. “You don’t get shy. You get smug.”
You smiled.
“Also true.”
We ate at the little dining table shoved against the wall—three chairs that didn’t match. You sat across from me, one knee bumping mine under the table every so often. Zack gave you shit about your portions until you pointed at his plate and said, “You know vegetables exist outside memes, right?”
He gasped.
“In this house?”
The banter was easy. It had been from the start, but now that we’d had a few weeks of dates and too-long phone calls and lingering goodnight kisses that turned into makeouts in doorways, that ease sat over something charged. Each time you adjusted in your chair, my eyes flicked to the way your shirt pulled across your chest, the way your fingers curled around your glass.
When dinner was done, Zack cleared his throat.
“I’m gonna go… not be a third wheel on this sad little Titanic,” he said, picking up his plate. “If you hear screaming, it’s just my game, not me dying. Probably.”
He clapped my shoulder, gave you a nod, and disappeared down the hall to his room, door closing with a soft click.
The apartment felt quieter in an instant.
You glanced toward his door, then back at me.
“He’s actually kind of cute when he behaves,” you said.
“Don’t flirt with my roommate,” I replied.
“Jealous?”
“Terrified.”
You rolled your eyes and stood, grabbing your glass and moving toward the couch.
“You coming, or are you and the dishes having a moment?” you asked over your shoulder.
I finished the last of my drink, set the glass down, and followed.
You curled into the corner of the couch, tucking one leg under you, facing me as I sat at the other end. There was space between us, technically.
It didn’t feel like space.
“So,” you said, tipping your head back against the cushion. “Are we watching something terrible or just talking until one of us falls asleep?”
“Why not both?” I said. “We can put on something Zack hates and talk over it.”
“That’s brave.”
I grabbed the remote, flicked through options, settled on some action movie we’d both seen three times.
You watched the screen for about thirty seconds before your focus shifted back to me.
“Come here,” you said, voice lower.
I didn’t need to be told twice.
I shifted closer, thigh against thigh now, my arm along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.
You turned, swinging a leg over my lap until you were straddling me, knees braced on either side of my hips. You held your glass lazily in one hand, the other resting on my chest.
“You’re comfortable?” I asked, my hands hovering at your waist.
“For now,” you said.
You took a slow sip, then set the glass on the coffee table behind you without breaking eye contact. Your hands slid up my shoulders, fingers tracing the back of my neck.
“Hi again,” you murmured.
“Hi,” I answered.
Then your mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t cautious.
We’d kissed like this before—pressed up against my front door when I walked you out, in the shadowed corner of a bar after one too many rounds, half-hidden in a hallway at some event where you’d been working and I’d shown up just to see you. Every time, we pushed it up to the edge before you put your palms on my chest and said, not yet.
This felt heavier.
Your knees tightened against my sides, hips shifting almost imperceptibly. Your tongue brushed my lower lip, and I opened for you easily. My hands settled on your waist, then slid lower, fingers finding the curve of your ass, testing how much of you I could hold.
You made a sound in the back of your throat, something between a sigh and a quiet curse.
That sound went straight through me.
I tightened my grip, pulling you down against me, letting you feel exactly what you were doing.
Your breath hitched.
You didn’t pull back.
You deepened the kiss instead, fingers digging into my shoulders, body pressing closer. The movie was just noise now, some distant soundtrack to the way your mouth moved under mine, the way your hips rolled once, slow and dangerous.
I slid my hands back up, then down again, bolder—palms full, thumbs pressing into the base of your spine. You gasped softly against my mouth, and I couldn’t help it; I did it again.
“Emmett,” you breathed.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”
My laugh came out rough.
“I can finish anything you throw at me,” I said.
You bit my lip lightly in answer.
Heat pooled at the base of my spine. The room felt too small.
One of my hands moved from your ass to the waistband of your jeans, fingers slipping just under the edge of denim, just enough to feel the warm skin there.
That was when you froze.
Not a full stop.
Just this sudden, contained stillness.
I felt it instantly.
Your mouth slowed. Your hands eased their grip. Your hips stopped moving.
I pulled back an inch.
“Hey,” I said quietly.
Your eyes were still dark, pupils blown, lips red and kiss-swollen. You looked wrecked in the best way.
But there was something calculating behind it now.
You took a breath.
Then another.
“Wait,” you said.
One word.
Soft.
But absolute.
My hand retreated from your waistband immediately, resting back on your hip instead.
“Okay,” I said. “Talk to me.”
You sat there for a second, catching your breath, not moving off my lap, just… thinking.
“I want this,” you said slowly. “You, this—” you gestured vaguely between us, “—all of it.”
“I know,” I said.
“But I don’t want it like this.”
“Like what?”
You shifted back just enough to look at me clearly, your hands sliding down to my chest, resting there.
“Like a momentum accident,” you said. “Like we got drunk on hormones and ended up naked because we didn’t hit the brakes in time.”
“We’re not drunk,” I said.
“I know.”
“And we’ve been building this for weeks.”
“I know that too.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek.
“I just… don’t want my first time with you to be something that happened because you touched me one more inch lower,” you said. “I’ve had enough of that.”
The line sat there between us.
I knew you had history.
I knew there’d been people who took from you because you were pretty and willing and eager to please, people who didn’t bother attaching any real weight to it. You’d talked around it, not in detail, but enough for me to know it wasn’t superficial.
You held my gaze.
“This isn’t casual to me,” you added. “I don’t want it to feel like the same script, just with a hotter lead.”
My chest tightened.
I let the silence hang for a beat, really taking it in.
Then I nodded once.
“Okay,” I said. “Then we stop here.”
You searched my face for some sign of frustration, ego, disappointment—something to confirm the fear you weren’t saying out loud.
I wasn’t thrilled about stopping. My body was very clear about its opinion on that.
But I wasn’t going to push you past a line you weren’t ready to cross, not like that.
You watched all of that flicker across my expression.
“You’re not mad?” you asked.
“No.”
“You don’t feel… rejected?”
“I feel like you know what you want this to mean,” I said. “And I’d rather sleep next to you frustrated than wake up next to you wishing we hadn’t rushed.”
You exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of your shoulders inch by inch.
You didn’t climb off.
You stayed right there, on my lap, hands still on my chest.
“I’m not saying no,” you said.
“I know.”
“I’m saying not like this.”
“I heard you.”
Your fingers traced absent shapes against my skin through my shirt.
“I’m used to guys getting pissy when I put the brakes on,” you said after a moment. “Or acting like I teased them on purpose.”
“They’re idiots.”
You smirked faintly.
“Probably.”
I shifted slightly under you, trying not to groan at the way your weight moved when I did.
“Can I make a selfish request?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“Can you stop rolling your hips while we have this conversation?”
You glanced down at where our bodies pressed together, then back up at me, and this time when you laughed, it was real.
“Yeah,” you said. “Okay. Fair.”
You adjusted your position, settling more onto my thighs than directly over my crotch, leaning your chest against mine. The contact was still intimate. Just… less incendiary.
You rested your head against my shoulder, your breath warm against my neck.
The movie kept playing, some explosion lighting up the room for a moment before fading again.
“This is new for me,” you said quietly.
“What is?”
“Not saying yes just because it feels good.”
I slid one hand up your back, fingers tracing your spine slowly.
“You’ve always had the right to say no,” I said.
“I know that,” you answered. “That’s not what I mean. I mean… choosing to wait because I want to, not because I’m scared or unsure or playing some bullshit game.”
I nodded against your hair.
“Feels different,” you added.
“Good different?”
You thought about it.
“Unsettling different,” you decided. “Like I’m… valuing something I used to hand out for free.”
“That’s not unsettling,” I said. “That’s you changing what you’ll tolerate.”
You made a small sound—half agreement, half discomfort.
We stayed like that for a while.
You on my lap, my arms around you, both of us slowly calming down, my heartbeat finally easing out of my throat.
At one point you shifted again, more to curl into me than grind against me, your legs stretching out along the couch, your back fitting against my chest now instead of facing me. My arms wrapped around your middle, hands resting over the soft cotton of your t-shirt.
“You know this means when we do actually have sex I’m going to be unbearable about it,” I murmured into your neck. “Like, emotionally. Mentally. Physically—”
“You’re unbearable already,” you cut in.
“Rude.”
“Truthful.”
I pressed a lazy kiss just under your ear.
“You staying over?” I asked.
“Do you want me to?”
“You’re on my chest, wrapped in my arms, in my apartment,” I said. “What do you think?”
You went quiet for a beat.
Then you nodded, just a small movement against me.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’ll stay.”
No ceremony.
No big decision speech.
You just decided.
When the credits finally rolled, I reached for the remote, turned the TV off, and we sat in the sudden quiet hum of the fridge and Zack’s faint game noise through the wall.
You didn’t move to get up.
“Do you have an extra toothbrush?” you asked, voice low.
I smiled into your hair.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I do.”
-Christopher Cullen
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“Am I staying in my casket in relation to sin, or am I walking around like a zombie committing sin?”
Henry Holloman