#its Andrew's pov too

[chaoticas-hell]

Y'all wtf? Im trying to write my fic Falling Is A Lot Like Drowning and I can't spell but-

Im just trying to say Andrew is enthusiastic about Neil am I just that horrible of a speller!??!?! Or is this some kind of message from the universe???

[kevindavidday]

aftg bonus content spoilers

after tkm the perception of andrew becomes so reliant on his personality through neil's love-tinted eyes, and there's such little about betsy that we know because neil avoids her like the plague. and then you get her pov.

you get her pov at one of the most damaging points in the series. and andrew minyard, in the middle of it all, still trying so hard to be seen as strong and unaffected, trying to look past all of it, and his mother, the truest, realest one he'll ever have, tells him: listen to me. i am proud of you.

and for a moment this indeterminably strong character is just a boy. he's just a twenty-ish year old boy looking at his mother, upset and possibly even afraid, before saying: everyone knows now, bee.

[unrequitedloveisabitch]

one of my biggest pet peeves as far as aftg art goes was, for the longest time, everyone making Neil a ginger when he is very clearly described as having auburn hair. Almost direct quote: "he'd had brown hair before, but never this specific shade of brown". Implying his hair is more brown than red. But ANYWAy. Nora corrected people recently and most new Neil art has the right color hair, which I appreciate.

now, my biggest coloring pet peeve is Andrew's eyes...

guys... they're not brown. They're hazel. Hazel is a mix of green and brown and gold. No matter what mix you make them, there should be at least a little green in there for them to be considered hazel. js

[dayurno]

[afurtivecake]

Found this languishing in my drafts file from when I first finished AFTG and felt the urge to just write: Andrew's POV of the scene after Nicky gets Neil all dolled-up for his first trip to Colombia.

cw: none

---------------------

Fuck Nicky to hell. 

That was the first coherent thought that came to Andrew’s mind the moment he saw Neil emerge from the bathroom. 

After everything Andrew had said to Kevin, to Wymack — to fucking Bee — about how they were all so fucking wrong about Neil Josten, it was disappointing that the one person whose initial assessment hadn’t been wrong was Nicky. 

Nicky, who was as shallow as he was gay, and equally loud about both, had noticed it the moment he laid eyes on Neil. While the rest of them were distracted by Neil’s behaviour, trying to figure out what kind of broken Kevin’s skittish, new striker was, Nicky’s dumbass brain had gone straight for the first incontrovertible truth about Neil. Or rather, his dick had. 

How fucking disappointing, Andrew thought to himself as he took Neil by the back of his neck and turned those piercing blue eyes full of defiance and palpable discomfort on himself.

He fought Andrew only a bit, and only out of instinct. Like Kevin, there was fear there, cut deep into him by the hands of others, though none of that fear was for Andrew. 

Neil had been given the chance to run. Instead, he had dressed himself in the clothes Andrew had gotten for him and bared those blue eyes because Andrew had made him, all while exuding a hostility that Andrew had put there.

“Damn, Neil! You clean up good!” Nicky said, smiling the smug smile of someone who had known all along that his taste in men was impeccable and couldn’t be fooled by whatever shabbiness Neil Josten tried to hide himself under.

Andrew shouldn’t have noticed the soft fuzz of hair beneath his fingers, or the warmth of the skin pulsing with a rabbit-quick beat under his tight hold. He shouldn’t have felt anything about it without the drugs adding its peachy-tinted haze. 

Neil ignored Nicky and glared pure dislike down at Andrew. Andrew smiled. 

Good, Andrew thought. A fizzle of satisfaction tickled against his chest that he squashed down.

Good, because he hated him too. 

And he had the whole night to prove it.

[asexual-juliet]

saw the outsiders musical last night (7/20/24) and thought i would make a little post about some of my favorite parts!! brody, sky & daryl were out so i saw trevor wayne as pony, josh strobl as johnny & henry julián gendron as two-bit!

there’s a bit after pony gets jumped by the socs where darry and soda are cleaning the blood off his face and when they’re done and have gotten up johnny comes and sits next to him and takes out a rag and starts also cleaning pony’s face <3 it’s so so sweet

henry does a couple little opt-ups as two-bit in both grease got a hold and hoods turned heroes where i was like “ooh!” i adore daryl tofa so i was a little disappointed when i found out i wouldn’t be able to see him but henry was SO fantastic!! such a talented dancer and you could tell he was having so much fun with the character! such a standout for me.

was deeply impressed by how many items were successfully thrown and caught in grease got a hold like holy shit dude

the LIGHTING in great expectations has pony pointing his flashlight at darrel on “darrel was on his way up in the world” & johnny on “johnny has no kind of chance in this world” and then as the verse goes on he points it at all of the greasers standing all over the stage and the light lingers on them for the rest of the song it’s so fucking cool-looking! and during the chorus the stage starts to look like a starry sky which is a choice they bring back for the little great expectations reprise at the end of far away from tulsa. 

the moment where pony & johnny do their little cool guy walks over to cherry and marcia at the drive-in with their popped collars was so precious to me

i ADORE cherry valance and i ADORE emma’s take on her!! her little convo with pony at the drive-in was really sweet and i loved that they chose not to make the dynamic feel like a crush on ponyboy’s part it was such a nice moment of two people finding and genuinely understanding each other so deeply <3

lighting sound & everything was so next-level during the fountain scene-bob’s death like i don’t even think i can describe it it was so much and so crisp and so visceral in the absolute best way

staging for run run brother was SO cool — there’s a part at the end where they use the tires and boards from the set to make two platforms that the other actors can roll them back and forth while johnny is on one and pony on the other and they roll them away from each other and they are both reaching out so desperately towards each other its so fantastic

i also really liked the part in run run brother where dally gives pony his jacket like he just wordlessly put it on for him it’s so nice

lighting & subsequent blackout at the end of run run brother as pb&j are in the air after jumping off the “train” was ELITE

pony is holding johnny’s switchblade during death’s at my door and at the end of the song johnny reaches out to take it from him but he doesn’t pull away so he’s just holding pony’s hand and then he puts his other hand over pony’s too and they sit there like that until the lights go down <3

LOVED what they’ve done with darry’s character here!! i know people have some nitpicky things with it but he is such a fascinating character and i’m so glad that the musical theater medium was able to do so much with him that the limited pov of the novel couldn’t — brent comer plays darry so so well and my heart aches for him like fuck dude he cares about his brothers so fucking much and he’s doing his best and he’s so so tired :((( give him a break!!

jason schmidt’s voice is SO fantastic holy fuck throwing in the towel was GORGEOUS!! and the little bit at the end where soda hugs darry and it looks like he maybe kisses him on the head a little is so darling <3

the entire “do i look like julie andrews?” scene is so fucking good… genuinely made me laugh out loud. “fine, paul newman, then!” “…no shit?” is so fantastic and johnny’s little “she is pretty as hell :)” about cherry is adorable. and ofc the “goldilocks and her ugly sister” line is fucking great

the way that johnny perks up when he hears “say hey to johnny for us :)” in soda’s letter is so cute

the church fire scene is perhaps the coolest shit i have ever seen onstage

ponyboy is crying so hard after johnny dies that has to sit down on the floor of the hospital room and soda sits behind him and just holds him <3

ponyboy is like actively crying as he narrates dally’s death its so fucking heartbreaking. i liked that they drew the parallels between the train crashes in order to make dally’s death meaningful despite its departure from the book. and the detail about the train derailing when it hit him was wonderfully written. 

there is a scene where ponyboy is like inconsolable sitting on the living room floor with his head in his arms after johnny and dally die and cherry comes by the house because she has been volunteering at the hospital and no one came to pick up johnny’s clothes after he died and she thought ponyboy should have them and she tells him there’s a letter in the pocket addressed to him and after she leaves he just sits there for a while and when he finally moves he picks up johnny’s jean jacket and fucking like hugs it and buries his face in it and it’s so so so heartbreaking and soda has to come over and start reading the letter to him before johnny appears and starts singing stay gold <3

johnny starts SR at the beginning of stay gold while pony is sitting on the car at SL but he is slowly moving closer to pony as the song goes on and right before they start singing in harmony johnny sits down next to him <3 <3 <3

josh’s stay gold made me CRY!! especially him and trevor singing “i have known a love that many never know / and that love lives on no matter where i go” holy shit. their voices blend together so beautifully

overall i fucking ADORED trevor’s ponyboy!! he embodies the role so so well and has such a fourteen-year-old boy vibe when he’s onstage that i definitely did not expect from an actor in his twenties! i’ve heard that his pony is a little more emotional than brody’s & josh’s and that was a choice i really really vibed with!! and his voice was like jaw-dropping, what a talent!!

stagedoor afterwards was so so wonderful! i made drawings for the entire cast and everyone was so so nice and seemed to really like them! the ensemble & understudies especially seemed really thrilled that i had made something for them

henry in particular was so so sweet and seemed like he couldn’t believe that i had drawn him! he was like “is this me for real?” and someone (i think it was trevor) told him to look at the back where i had written his name and a little note and he was really excited about it!! he actually was like “this is awesome i have to go inside and give this to my mom right now so i don’t lose it” and his family was right inside the stagedoor and he pointed me out to them and they were so excited! he gave me a hug too it was really nice :)

trevor was also really excited and was like “this is a drawing of me for real? not brody?” and he was so happy when he turned it around and saw his name <3

i gave melody and sarahgrace copies of the same drawing of both of them and as soon as i gave it to melody she immediately looked around to find sarahgrace and show it to her (she was still inside but it was very cute) and then she told me they were going to put it on the wall in their dressing room!!

sarahgrace was like “omg you even drew my bracelet!” and was excited when i pointed out the detail i put in for the pattern on her dress!

trevor yelled across the sidewalk to tell josh to stop talking to his (trevor’s) mom as a joke lmfao

everyone except jason & kevin c came out to stagedoor and they were all so so sweet!! got photos with most of them and they all signed my copy of the book!! overall such a fucking fantastic experience! the drawings were a lot of work but it was so nice to see the looks on the cast’s faces when they saw them!!

[emkayewrites]

Lukola fanfiction from Luke's POV- Luke and Nicola are filming the carriage scene but both of them secretly like each other - and both of them are unavailable.

(Excerpt taken from my fanfiction 'Curtain Fall')

5th November 2022 – London (UK)

It was a surreal experience to be on a soundstage, even though he had been on dozens of them by this point in his career.

The Bridgerton production did soundstages like nowhere else.  Everything was huge, and everything was opulent.  He stood in front of a dark blue, four-wheeled carriage.  It was elegant with an exterior adorned with intricate gold-leaf patterns and lacquered wood that contrasted sharply with its’ gleaming brass fittings.  It stood looking rather out of place in front of a giant green screen, in the middle of the chasmic space that was Soundstage 12. 

He was dressed in the finest formalwear that the Regency Period had to offer, and he was covered in what he approximated to be about twelve layers of make-up and two entire cans of hairspray. 

He usually felt a mixture of nerves and excitement before filming a scene as crucial as the one they were about to film.  Today, he was just plain nervous.

He was hardly able to take note of the other people on the soundstage.  At one far end, there were several chairs and tables surrounded by a small group of the hair and make-up team.  At another end, there were a handful of crew members working with cables, rigging and lighting fixtures.  Usually, he would be approaching them all, making small talk, trying to ease his own racing mind but he felt too unsettled to make conversation.

He knew that the way he was feeling was not just about the nature of the scene they were about to film.  It was about her.  She stood several feet away from him with Erika and John adding touches to her make-up and clothes.  She was resplendent in a shimmering baby blue gown that was cinched in a way that flattered both her waist and her ample breasts. 

Breasts he would have to touch again. 

All he wanted to do was to touch her again.

He felt nauseous.

At the same time, he knew that was the very last thing he should do.

He sensed there was something different in her since that night in his trailer too.  She appeared to keep more of a distance, the bantering dialogue they usually had was reduced to a few quips.  He could not be sure, but he felt some sort of frustration emanating from her.  As if she wanted to say something but could not.  He could also be imagining it. He did a lot of that recently.  Imagining conversations with her.  Imagining being with her.  He then got angry at himself.  Then he felt the inevitable anxiety that always came when he realised that he was having strong feelings for the woman he would now have to act like he was having strong feelings for. 

His fathers’ advice echoed in his mind: Keep the work as work, and don’t neglect your real life.  How could he do that when the real life was becoming his work, and the work was becoming his real life? 

Six burly-looking men of various ages approached the carriage.  Andrew trailed behind them, a headset wrapped around his neck and clipboard in hand.  Andrew, their director, was a slight man in his earlier forties with a refined yet approachable air about him.  He gestured for both Luke and Nicola to come towards him.

“Guys, guys… you both look incredible.” Andrew’s eyes beamed with enthusiasm. “Wow!”

In that moment, Luke felt thankful that it was Andrew who was going to be taking them through these scenes.  There was nothing like having a director that not only led you through your scenes, but also lifted you up and empowered you throughout the process. 

“Right, so the way we’ll do this is – the camera will be in the carriage with you guys, we’ll be back over here with the monitors to give that added illusion of intimacy in there.” Andrew explained, pointing to the monitor setup a few feet away.

“And these lovely men…” Andrew motioned to the guys standing by the carriage. “They will be our carriage hydraulics!  We can’t have the carriage attached to real horses for a scene like this, so this was Netflix’s next best offer.”

“Well, we’ll try not to make it too long of a shoot day for you guys.” Luke found himself saying with a nervous chuckle. 

“Right, so we’ll get you guys up into position…” Andrew nodded towards the carriage. 

Luke felt the instinct to go to Nicola, to take her by the hand and guide her up onto the carriage, but one of the carriage men beat him to it.

They stepped into the luxurious interior and seated themselves opposite one another as the script requested.  Andrew looked in through the window at them.

“So, we’ll be on the monitors and the camera will follow you from there…” He motioned to the other side of the carriage, where a camera was positioned, looking in at them through the window.

Luke watched Nicola orient herself, taking note of the cues Andrew was outlining.  He was taken aback by how intimate it all felt now that he was inside the carriage.  It was just going to be them and one camera.  

“That looking good to you, Luke?” Andrew interrupted his thoughts.  Luke was not sure he had taken everything in, but he felt compelled to nod. 

“Alright, so we’ve got this mixture of anger and hurt – but there is a tension running underneath it all.”  Andrew’s eyes lit up again. “It’s the tension of longing.  And that tension finally breaks to give us – the carriage scene!”

“Let’s do this!” Nicola high-fived Andrew, matching his excitement.

He could not ignore how she lit up when she smiled.  He thought about how it did not help that she was made up to resemble an actual Goddess on earth.

“Alright, great! On my cue, guys.” Andrew pulled the headset over his head and moved away from them.  They heard his echoing footsteps recede as the entire soundstage became eerily silent.  The lighting around them dimmed.  Suddenly, the carriage started to move in an undulating way. 

Luke’s eyes met Nicola’s and for a second, they both stifled a giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. 

They heard Andrew’s shout: “ACTION!”

Then their masks came down.

Nicola vanished, and the misty-eyed Penelope sat before him, a look of anger etched on her face.

He fixed her with a stoic look as he spoke: “You cannot marry that man. He will leave you, and he is too particular.”

He watched her watching him, her face getting angrier.

“And he is – he is just not right for you, Pen.” He continued, part-insisting, part-pleading.

She shook her head furiously at him. “He did not propose.”

He stared at her, stunned. 

“In fact, he rejected me because of you.” She practically spat the words out.  “Because the scene you caused led him to believe you have feelings for me.  An idea so preposterous, I do not know what to do besides laugh.”

There were times when she was acting that he found himself lost in what she was doing.  The way she conveyed emotions with so much power and grace.  He watched her with awe.

She continued, through gritted teeth: “Now, will you please leave me alone and let us ride home in silence?”

His heart was racing and there were tears in his eyes as he leaned forward.

“I cannot.” His tone was defiant.

“Please!” She snapped at him, near tears herself.

“I cannot!” He found himself snapping back, a hot, angry tear rolling down his cheek.  He could no longer tell if they were acting tears, or tears of real frustration. 

“Because…” He swallowed, as if mustering up his courage. “What if I did have feelings for you?”

He felt the nausea again. He wanted to remind himself that this was acting, that he should not be having such a visceral reaction to those words but at the same time, he knew it was helping his performance. 

“What?” She blinked at him, still frowning.

He moved so that he was closer to her and then knelt before her.  He was aware he was shaking.  His breath was laboured.

“I have spent so long trying to feel less, trying to be the kind of man society expects me to be.”  He reached forward for her hands, his nerves increasing as he was aware she was surely able to feel the sweat on his palms and feel how much he was shaking.  He found himself squeezing her hands tightly, as if to anchor himself.

“And for a moment, I thought I had succeeded.” He continued. “But these past few weeks have been full of confounding feelings.”

Where did Colin end and he begin?  He thought to himself.  He felt himself getting choked up.  He felt the weeks of frustration and conflicting emotions rising inside him. 

“Feelings like a total inability to stop thinking about you. About that kiss.”

She reacted to his words with a small gasp.

“Feelings like dreaming of you when I’m asleep.  And in fact, preferring sleep because that is where I might find you.  A feeling that is like torture.”

Speaking these words felt terrifying, electrifying and cathartic all at once. Another tear rolled down his cheek.

“One which I cannot… do not… and will not give up.” He spoke emphatically.

“Please. Do not say things you do not mean.” She shook her head at him, disbelieving.

“But I do mean it.  It is everything I have wanted to say to you… for weeks.”

An expression of confusion and pain appeared on her face.

“But… Colin, we are friends.”

Even though the rejection was merely playacting, it still stung.

“Yes, but we…” He spoke with hurt in his voice.  He wanted to say more but swallowed back his words and recomposed himself. He moved back to his seat. “Forgive me. I do not know what I was thinking.”

“But I’d very much like to be more than friends.” 

He stared at her with a mixture of amazement and desire.

“So much more.” She added, a look of longing in her eyes.

He moved closer to her, and for a moment, their faces met, and they took each other in, both breathing heavily.  All he wanted to do was to kiss her, but he was also terrified of what that would do to him.  Then, their mouths met in a passionate kiss.

He found his mind and body travel back… back to the inside of his trailer… back with his hands all over her.  Her mouth and body responded to his with a willingness and desire equal to his own.

He felt the stickiness of her lipstick smearing around the corners of his mouth, her hands in his hair – neither of them having any thought for their hair or make-up.

And then suddenly, he heard it as she did because they found themselves springing away from one another at the same time.

“CUUUUUUUUUUUT!”

A bright light exploded in their faces as the spotlight above them came back to life.  Andrew and Liam, the cinematographer, were stood by the window next to the camera.  Andrew surveyed their messy faces and hair with wide eyes.

“Woah, you guys were really into that.”

Luke instinctively wiped at his lips with the back of his hand as Nicola smoothed out the front of her dress.

“We’ve been yelling cut for over a minute while you did the kiss – we even timed it!” He laughed.

“Don’t say we don’t give you one hundred and ten percent.” Nicola joked.  Despite her humour, Luke sensed that she seemed unsettled.

“That’s for sure!” Andrew agreed. “Alright, let’s get hair and make-up in here and then we can get the next angle.”

Andrew and Liam moved away from the carriage.  Luke could hear the rest of the crew outside the carriage also dispersing as the normal noises of set life resumed. 

He watched Nicola as she touched gently at her own hair, assessing it for damage.

“You look beautiful.” He found himself saying out loud.

She stared him with a look he did not recognise.  She did not reply.

Quick little authors note: I watched the many interviews Nicola and Luke gave about the carriage scene, about how intense it was, and about how in one instance, they were so caught up filming that they did not hear ‘cut’ being called by the director. It inspired me to write a short story where Nicola and Luke really like each other, but don't know how the other feels, and have to hide it on set. In my mind, that was the only logical reason that this scene was so intense for them. It couldn’t possibly be that they are just such great actors ;) Anyway, that short chapter became the fanfiction I'm STILL writing about these two! So I hope you enjoyed what was actually the very first chapter of this story that I ever wrote -I built the rest of the story around it!

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Five)

Summary: He couldn’t stop thinking about eating her, of tasting her sweet, soft flesh and hot blood. He wanted to devour her, but not in the way he usually did his meals. He would consume her slowly, sniff and lick every inch of her skin before gently biting down. He’d start with her wrists, feel her pulse point flutter under his tongue before severing the artery so it sprayed her honeyed blood into his mouth. He’d keep her alive for as long as possible, not wanting to be parted from her. Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to kill her. Maybe he could satisfy himself with just a piece of her, just his pound of flesh… Word Count: 2792 Warnings: still no smut Notes: triple asterisk (***) denotes a POV change as usual, dash asterisk dash (-*-) is a time skip but not a POV change AO3, Masterlist

Ghost and his dove left the cabin the next day, early in the morning. It took some convincing on his part, in the form of pointed groans and growls, to get Lelia to step foot outside. But they were too close to the base she came from, and the cabin had no food left. They had to keep moving, to find somewhere better.

Ghost led her to the stream he’d bathed in yesterday, and they followed it several miles south. Lelia became jumpy the second they left, but when they got to the stream, she paled dramatically and wouldn’t get within three metres of it. He found it odd, but it's not like he could have asked even if he wanted to. She didn’t complain, but he could tell how much she wanted to turn around and go back to the cabin, where there was a relatively warm bed waiting for her. He couldn’t blame her—even with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her ballet flats swapped out for a proper pair of boots they’d found in the closet, she was still shivering from the chilly autumn wind. Winter was just around the corner, and its threatening presence loomed overhead like a knife, in the cloudiness of the skies and the way her breath misted in front of her face with every puff of air.

Eventually, the stream came to an end, and Ghost collected some water in the bucket before they continued. The trees were beginning to thin out, and he hoped that meant they were nearing some sort of town. Anywhere that he could find a little more food for his dove.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The day ended before the woods did, and they were forced to stop when Lelia nearly collapsed from exhaustion. He felt guilty when he noticed just how ragged she looked—all she’d had to eat in the last few days was a can of beans, and she’d been walking nonstop since dawn. It was difficult for him to remember just how fragile humans were, especially when he’d never been a particularly delicate man himself, even when he was alive. But his dove wasn’t a trained, battle hardened operative—she was just a normal young girl, and he needed to treat her as such.

He groaned a quiet apology as he helped her set up a fire, once again handing her the matchbook to light it. She only broke one this time, which was quite the improvement. He added it to the flames as extra tinder.

“Do you sleep?” She asked him as the water boiled. He jerked his head to the left, then the right. “That must be nice. I wish I didn’t have to. Sleeping is more terrifying than being awake, most of the time.”

He’d heard her tossing and turning last night, had smelt her salty tears as she’d whimpered and begged someone named Andrew for mercy. Mercy it had sounded like she’d never gotten. He had wanted to comfort her, but he’d been certain his presence would have just made things worse. So he’d stayed outside her door and done the only thing he could to help her. Stood guard and kept her safe.

He did the same tonight. When the exhaustion finally got the better of her, despite the valiant fight she put up, he watched over her. But this time, when the nightmares came for her, there was no door separating them and hiding the terrified expression on her tear-stained face. So he moved closer, reaching out and clumsily twirling a lock of her hair around his stiff, cold fingers. He couldn’t feel the softness, but he could imagine it. Smooth like silk. Rare and desirable and beautiful, just like her. But with a hidden strength, too.

Soon enough, his dove settled down. He’d have liked to say he had something to do with it, but he knew that was just wishful thinking. Nonetheless, it took him quite a long while to finally let go of her loose, auburn curls and get back to his feet, returning to his self appointed role of her undead protector.

-*-

It took two more days to find a town.

Lelia could barely hold herself upright by the time they did, and Ghost would have offered to carry her—except that his instincts to feed were going haywire, having been denied too long, and every waft of her unique perfume made his mouth water. He’d given up on trying to wipe away his drool. It was no use. He couldn’t stop thinking about eating her, of tasting her sweet, soft flesh and hot blood. He wanted to devour her, but not in the way he usually did his meals. He would consume her slowly, sniff and lick every inch of her skin before gently biting down. He’d start with her wrists, feel her pulse point flutter under his tongue before severing the artery so it sprayed her honeyed blood in his mouth. He’d keep her alive for as long as possible, not wanting to be parted from her. Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to kill her. Maybe he could satisfy himself with just a piece of her, just his pound of flesh…

With a ferocious growl, Ghost suppressed the rising urge once again. He hurried Lelia into the first house they saw after clearing it, then put her in a room with a lock. He mimed the locking motion, then held out his hand, telling her to stay put. He pointed to himself, and then pointed back towards the front door, and prayed she would understand.

“You’re leaving?” She asked, sounding like she was on the edge of panic, even as she laid down on the bed, unable to stand any longer. “Where are you going? Are you— are you coming back?”

Ghost groaned pitifully, banging on the door. His dove jumped, and he nodded at her questions, but then pointed at the lock again, gesturing her over. Wide-eyed, she dragged herself out of bed, and he took several steps back as she approached. She looked at him in confusion, but he just grabbed the door and slammed it closed between them. He rattled the knob until she got the hint and locked it. This time, the groan he let out was one of approval and relief.

He fled the house and Lelia’s intoxicating scent quickly after that, retreating back into the woods to hunt. He was so hungry, so overwhelmed by the virus’s instincts, that he didn’t think he could stop himself from eating a human if he came across them. He hoped desperately that he didn’t, even though they tasted far better than the animals he usually fed on.

He was drooling at the thought, again. Fresh human… not just the scraps left by other zombies, like Lelia would have been had he not intervened. He imagined finding her torn apart, soft hair matted with blood, big brown eyes full of terror, frail limbs ripped off, empty stomach clawed open. It was horrid. It was what he would do to her if he went this long without feeding again.

He vowed then and there to never, ever let that happen.

***

Lelia startled at the knock on the door, slowly standing up from where she sat on the edge of the bed and crossing over to it.

“Simon?” She asked anxiously. “Is that you?”

A familiar sounding groan answered her, and she almost threw the door open in relief before she thought better of it. What if it was another zombie? She’d be dead, and Simon would come back to find her bloody, lifeless corpse. Possibly walking around. No, better safe than sorry.

“Knock three times, pause, and then knock twice more if it’s you,” she said. A few seconds passed, and then three slow knocks—bangs, really, Simon seemed to have trouble with his fine motor skills and so knocking was beyond him—a pause, and then two more bangs. Lelia waited a few more seconds to make sure nothing else was coming, and then she opened the door, letting out a sigh of relief as Simon’s milky eyes met hers—only to recoil in horror when she saw the fresh, red blood on his gear and around his mouth. There were bits of something Lelia was scared to know the name of stuck in his teeth, and instinctively, she took a step back. Simon did as well, giving her space and ducking his head. He almost looked… hurt? Or maybe ashamed… it was difficult to tell. She wasn't even really sure what the extent of his emotions were—did he feel the same way he could when he was alive? Or was it dulled? He was clearly capable of some feelings, otherwise there would be no reason for him to follow her around, protecting her. She still didn't understand why he did. Her best guess was pity, or maybe loneliness. Whatever it was, it kept her alive, and she was grateful.

“Did you… did you kill something?” She asked after a moment, swallowing nervously. Simon didn’t move or make a sound for a long moment, before he jerked his head up and down in a nod. His broken, bloody jaw quivered, teeth clacking against one another. Drool leaked out of his mouth, and Lelia had to fight the urge to wipe it away. It always seemed to bother Simon when he drooled, and once again, she wondered at his capacity to feel things like embarrassment or self-disgust. But she pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the question she desperately didn't want to ask but knew she had to. “Was it— human?”

Simon quickly shook his head, so quick the string of bloody drool flew off his face and landed on her jacket. Simon froze, and any doubt she had that he felt things as deeply as a human did disappeared at the utterly mortified sound he let out. It was between a groan and a gurgle, and he automatically reached for her as if to wipe it off, before realizing his gloves were covered in blood, too. His hands hovered over her chest as she blinked at the new stain on her shirt, too shocked to say anything. Just as she came to her senses and was about to assure Simon that it was alright—it was gross, yes, but so was her period, and that wasn’t anything she couldn’t handle—he turned around with surprising agility for someone whose muscles were in a permanent state of rigor mortis, and fled down the stairs.

***

He’d spit on her.

He’d showed up at her door looking like a murder scene, and then he’d spit on her like the snarling, rabid animal that he was.

He had never been so horrified in his undead life. He couldn't remember if that was the case for his actual life, but he’d bet on it if Johnny were here.

“Was pretty funny, mate, ye got tae admit.”

Ghost growled at the very Scottish sounding voice in his head. Whoever this Johnny was, he was a right arse.

He went straight into the downstairs toilet, turning on the tap. No water came out, as expected. He'd still had to try.

He turned to the towels instead. They were dusty and motheaten, but that didn't bother him. He wiped his face off as best he could, and then his gear and his gloves, pulling them off and stuffing them into one of his many pockets. The end result was… not great. The blood of the deer he'd killed and eaten had already started to dry, adding another stain to his gear and leaving a rusty brown hue to his colorless skin. He tried to pick tufts of flesh and fur from in between his teeth with his blunt, blackened nails, but he somehow only made things look worse. 

“Simon?”

The sound of his dove’s soft, concerned voice floated down the hallway, and Ghost panicked, slamming the door of the toilet shut so hard it rattled on its hinges. He heard Lelia’s heartbeat jump and her footsteps pause, before starting again in his direction.

“Simon?” She repeated, knocking softly on the door. He turned away from his ghastly reflection in the dirty mirror, paralyzed. He was acting ridiculous. He was a big, strong, undead soldier. He shouldn’t be terrified of a little dove like her. And yet he was. He was so bloody afraid that she’d tell him to leave, that she couldn't stand to be near him anymore. That he’d have to go back to protecting her from the shadows, an unwanted stray dog just following her around, desperate for any scrap of affection she would show him, but denied at every turn. It sounded miserable. It was miserable, but he would do it, to keep her safe. “Simon, will you come out, please?”

Unable to deny her, Ghost slowly opened the door. She stood on the other side with a worried expression, but all he could see was the drying string of crimson saliva on her smart pink jacket. He looked away, feeling ill.

“Are you alright?”

The soft, gentle question was entirely unexpected, but it shouldn't have been. Of course his dove would worry about the rabid, blood-covered zombie that just spit on her. She was an angel. It was why he had to keep her safe, keep her alive. The world needed people like her, now more than ever.

Ghost jerked his head up and down in a nod after a moment of hesitation, and then patted his chest, right over the spot where he’d spit on hers. He let out a quiet groan of apology, unable to meet her pretty brown eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lelia said, giving him a small smile. “This outfit was ruined far before that… besides, it’s not very practical for the apocalypse. My hus— I wanted to keep myself pretty. Clinging to a bit of the old world, I suppose. But I’m not on the base anymore. And trekking through the woods for days on end in a skirt is not easy.”

Ghost noticed the slip. It had sounded like she’d been about to say husband before she’d cut herself off. His eyes flickered to her left hand, but no ring sat upon her finger. Had he misheard? And why did the idea of her being married bother him so much?

You know why.

He ignored the thought, focusing back on her words. He grunted in agreement, and made a mental note to look for some clothes that would fit her—ones that would help keep her warm in the coming months. She was far too thin—she would need multiple layers if he was going to keep her from dying of exposure in the dead of winter.

An awkward silence fell between them, and Ghost could tell his dove wanted to ask him a question. He waited her out, and just as he knew she would, she broke first.

“So you—you went out to eat?” She asked, then winced. “I mean— earlier, when you were— were acting all… frustrated. You were… hungry?”

Ghost swallowed reflexively, tasting deer meat in the back of his throat. Slowly, he nodded, trying subtly to hold his jaw in place. Lelia looked nervous again, but also determined.

“How hungry?”

Ghost looked away, ashamed. He didn’t want to think about the overwhelming desire he’d had to sink his teeth into her supple flesh, or the vivid, blood-soaked images his virus-laden mind had conjured of him doing so.

Lelia sucked in a small, sharp breath, and her voice shook slightly when she spoke again—but there was bravery in it, too. A certainty. Like she’d made up her mind and couldn’t be swayed.

“We’ll just have to make sure you stay well fed, then,” she stated simply. “Then you won’t be tempted to snack on me… right?”

Ghost didn’t know how to explain that he was always tempted to snack on her, that her scent was the most delicious thing he’d ever smelled, that he wanted to see if her blood would warm him from the inside like a good whiskey. He didn’t know how to say that despite that, he would never harm a hair on her head, not for as long as he lived. Unlived. Bloody semantics.

So instead, he just grunted in agreement. He would always be tempted, but so long as he remained satiated, he would be able to keep his instincts in check. That was what she really wanted to know.

“Good,” she replied, sounding relieved. She offered him another smile, smaller than he would’ve liked but still just as sweet. “But you’re not the only one that’s hungry. Do you think there’s any food hidden in the cabinets?”

[figuringthengsout]

I did read the new POVs! My question stands.

Oh, okay!

Here's the original ask for context: "What do you mean 'Aaron figuring out before Dobson that Andrew needed approval.' ?"

By approval I obviously mean approval of Andrew's sexuality. In the new extra content you can read the part where Aaron realized that Andrew never talked about Neil to Bee or, better, about Neil in the context of his relationship with him. Because of Andrew's past we know that this decision could come from different reasons, but what Aaron seems to think - and what the context then seems to confirm - is that Andrew never talked about his relationship with Neil with Bee because he was afraid of losing her (this reminds me of him and Cass, but this is another discussion). Andrew was afraid that by admitting his orientation Bee would see him under another light and distance herself from him. And the same fear applied for Aaron (which is really sad if you consider that Nicky had been a stable presence in both of their lives for years by that time).

Anyways, the point is that it took just a few minutes for Aaron to understand what the hold up with Andrew was, whereas Bee seemed to still be in the dark.

Now, you could argue that Bee might have already sensed something and that she decided to not bring it up for whatever reason, but why would she when she knew how much Andrew craved her (and his family's) approval? Why not try to reassure him beforehand? Especially considering his past? Wouldn't that be cruel?

And if she hadn't known how to bring it up with Andrew, why wouldn't she try with Aaron first (despite the difficulties and his refusal to talk)? The same way she did now by testing the waters with Nicky's situation? Why wouldn't she help Andrew see that there was no need to be this scared?

I honestly think that Aaron was the first one to really see through Andrew and to make sure he knew he was not only accepted, but also respected. Aaron seems to be the only one able to properly see how scared Andrew is, always.

And I think that's because Aaron sees himself in Andrew and vice versa. They're so alike and they both want the best for each other, but that's a scary thing to want when the world has always dealt you bad hands. Because Aaron in its fundaments craves the same things as Andrew: for Andrew to accept his love for Katelyn and respect his decision to stay with her, despite the challenges that might arise or the risk that she would take advantage of him; and he knows that's asking for too much. He knows that they're flying too close to the sun, but they've been playing safely for so long and they're so tired that it's worth taking the risk of crashing. Especially now that they're sure they'll always have each other. Now that there's no more need of a deal. Now that they're just brothers.

[writtenicarus]

Why AFTG sucks but doesn't suck

Okay so I swear that will make more sense in a minute. The main point I'm trying to tackle here is why, despite its notable flaws, AFTG "sucks" to other readers but not to its fandom. Trigger warnings for basically every triggering topic in AFTG.

You may realise the majority of people who dislike AFTG have little to no understanding of the characters flaws - and that's because they cannot relate to the characters. They may criticise by saying Andrew is abusive or Nicky is too sexual. But the majority of fans disagree, and here's why. They can relate. Andrew is a victim of rape, child rape, and that is VERY recognised in the story and in his character and whilst many who are unfamiliar with this variation of trauma see his actions as abusive, fans of the series and in some cases victims of it themselves such as myself, see his behaviour as liberation. We see it as him taking back control.

Furthermore, with Nicky, people see his behaviour as creepy. I understand some fans POV is the same but to understand my point of view of the Nicky/Neil I did do an extensive explanation in the past but I want to delve deeper in the future, it's up on my Instagram around July 2022 if you want to read it. Moving on, I do not see it as creepy. His confidence in his sexuality and confidence in himself and his kindness I see as an act of freedom. Nicky is finally away from his abusive household where he was shunned and traumatized for who he was (remember the fact he went to conversion "therapy"??) and now he doesn't have to experience that. He's free. It's so beautiful to see and he is my favourite character. Keeping in mind, he gave up said freedom with Eric to come back and look after the twins, one of which he had never met or heard of.

There are a lot of other examples I could use, but the point is, the majority of people who claim AFTG is simply unrealistic thankfully haven't experienced the trauma many of the fans have who are able to relate to each character. And that's why AFTG will never suck. It can't suck - it's freeing and liberating.

Another thing I'd like to note is why I believe despite MANY flaws Nora is an incredibly intelligent author. So many under-represented groups were heard and targeted in AFTG and one of the reasons why AFTG is so "underground" or disliked away from the fact it's old and self-published is the fact it has such a minute target audience. And considering all things that happen in the book, some may question my phrasing of that so let me explain.

It's not the variations of trauma or events that are minute but the fact and extent of the trauma the characters experience and their reactions to it. All of the foxes are flawed - that's the point. And none of their responses to their trauma are healthy - that's the point.

The foxes can be seen as a representation of the minority of people who respond to their trauma in negative ways and the whole point of the book is to give these people second chances. And that's again why so many feel seen.

To summarize, I just personally believe that without a very self-aware or understanding mindset a lot of the people who cannot relate to either of the foxes simply just won't and did not like this book and even call it problematic. I'm not saying these people are narrow-minded (they are) but if we look at the large minority of readers who disliked the books that's the case and those who could relate but still label it as problematic probably could not understand why the foxes responded the way they did, and that's okay.

[ashestoashes7]

Hello it’s millportisntreal (stupid side blog rules) but im so intrigued by Interesting/I love things from Andrew’s pov and all things olympics <3

Hello!! ah, side blog rules. I also love things from Andrew’s pov and weaving the Olympics into it. Hope you enjoy! This is likely the first of my WIPs I’ll finish, goal of August 11th but we’ll see how that goes <33

WIP Wednesday

- Interesting -

In Andrew’s opinion, he was the one getting the short end of the stick. Making the deal with Kevin had been an admission on its own. If Andrew wasn’t diametrically opposed, it was possible. The ultimatum wasn’t delivered to Neil, that would be too easy. Since Neil accepted his invitation to the US Court, he hadn’t brought up Andrew’ prior denials at all, actually, though he gave no disguise to his eagerness. He was surely working up to it, a perfect proposal Andrew would inevitably take. Andrew Minyard was going to be on the US Court in time to partake in the Olympics, that was a fact he had already come to accept.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t make Kevin work for it first.

His life was a series of tragedies, Exy a blemish he had yet to truly escape. Practice, watching Neil’s eyes light up when he realized Andrew was actually <i>trying</i>, practice, Aaron calling to congratulate him, practice, long nights spent next to Neil and occasionally Kevin going over games he could now envision with his eyes closed. He called them idiots, ignoring Neil when he pointed out that Andrew was there every time, head laid on his shoulder, occasionally allowing careful fingers to card through his hair.

But Kevin did not care for Andrew’s suffering, no, his excitement spread like an ink spill, triumphant joy seeping into everything around him with a smile only dampened by Andrew shoving three cookies in his mouth in quick succession. Kevin knew what he was getting into, of course, and if Andrew must spend such an arduous and lengthy time fulfilling his side of the bargain Kevin could afford to suffer a little. It builds character.

<—Prev

Finished Now

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part V

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 3.7k

Author’s Note: As always, if you’re interested in learning more about the historical context of any of the letters, or if you have any questions about anything that gets discussed, feel free to reach out! I will say that Bob’s mother’s remedy for influenza that gets mentioned in this chapter was a real “home cure” that people used to use back in the day!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!

The title for this chapter comes from The Andrews Sisters song of the same name.

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to @luminousnotmatter​. I could thank you endlessly for all the love and support!

Warnings: Alternating POV, references to war and its impact, mentions of rationing, discussion of war casualties and death, references to church and prayer, a ton of fluff as always.

October 12, 1942

Dear Peach,

First of all, I want to start by saying that I’m so sorry for the troubles your family went through at the end of the summer. Little Frankie sounds like quite the trooper, but I’m sure it must have been hard on all of you to see him so sick like that. I’m real, real glad to hear that he’s on the mend. Dottie, too.

It’s funny—even though I’ve never met her, it’s not hard at all for me to believe that your sister was one of the few babies who survived the Spanish Flu back in 1918. From everything you’ve shared with me, it sounds like it would take a lot to break Dottie Sheridan. I’d bet my last dollar that she gives Paddy a run for his money on a regular basis. Maybe don’t tell her I said that though. I do want her to like me, should we ever get to meet in person one day.

You know, a couple summers back, my little brothers ended up coming down with a case of influenza. It seemed as though they picked it up from some of the kids they’d been playing with. It might sound crazy, but my mother would take a handkerchief, sprinkle it with whiskey, and make my brothers inhale the fumes every night before they went to bed. I don’t know where she learned that remedy, but would you believe that the two of them were right as rain after just four days? I’m confident that everyone in your household is the picture of health now, but you might want to give it a try should anyone else come down with the flu. I can’t explain it, but it did seem to do the trick!

I’ll selfishly admit that the weeks that went by without receiving a letter from you were desolate ones indeed. I received a couple letters from home, which were wonderful, but I found that my mind kept wandering back to sunny Charleston instead of the farmlands of Iowa. When I finally saw your handwriting on the envelope they handed me during Mail Call, it took everything in me not to jump up and down like a fool and make a scene. Just like you, I’ve been rereading your letters each night before lights out. I know we haven’t been exchanging messages for long, but each one lifts my spirits more than you could know. And around these parts, that’s a real special thing.

Despite being so far away from home and from everything that’s familiar and comfortable, when I close my eyes and imagine sharing a slice of your mama’s peach tart or getting to dance with you again and hear your pretty voice, I feel as though everything’s going to be alright. Even if the feeling only lasts for a minute or two, it gives me something to hold onto in the moments when it feels like maybe the world really is going to pieces. So thank you for that. Your kindness and your sweet words of encouragement are helping me get through this war, minute by minute and day by day.

I think, if you’re agreeable to it, that I’d really like to take you up on your offer to show you the world one day. Maybe even from up in the air. I may be Paul’s backseat gunner, but I know a thing or two about piloting an aircraft. You can trust me. Any places in particular you’d like to see, Peach? I’m all ears.

I promise you that I am most certainly NOT remembering you through rose-colored glasses. If you remember, my glasses are very much of the non-rose-tinted variety. But they do aid my vision, which helped me to see that night back in May just how absolutely swell you are. I hope it doesn’t embarrass you if I say that I still remember the way your smile put the stars to shame that night on King Street. And though I know no rehearsal is necessary, it does make me quite happy to think that you’ll be practicing a song with me in mind. I know any song you pick will be beautiful, but how about “Someone to Watch Over Me?” It was the first song we danced to, after all. And I’m sure you’ll knock it out of the park. If Gershwin was still alive, I know he’d be thrilled to hear someone doing such justice to his music.

I’ll have you know that it took me quite some time to get the peace and quiet I needed to write this letter because Tommy Boy and Benny simply would not stop chattering in my ear. At first, it was just more of their usual advice—most of which, for your sake, I don’t actually take—but then I realized they were trying to pass along messages of their own to you! I very clearly, and perhaps a bit selfishly, told them that you were my pen pal and that they’d just have to go find some of their own. Benny pouted a bit, but Tommy Boy just grinned, slapped me on the shoulder, and told me he’d never been prouder.

They both say hello, by the way. I did agree to pass that much along.

Paul’s sitting near me right now, writing his own letter home to Natasha and the kids. He wanted me to thank you for your prayers and for your kind words. He’s not one to get all mushy most of the time, but I can tell that your thoughts for him and his family really do mean a lot to him. And he said he’s definitely going to take you up on that jewelry offer when we get home. He may have made some comment about buttering Natasha up when we finally return home, after leaving her alone with two babies for so long. Although, now that I think about it, my little goddaughter, Clara always insists that she’s a big girl. So I’m sure she would take great offense at me referring to her as a baby. Promise you won’t tell on me?

Peach, I hope you know how truly extraordinary you are. I find it just about impossible to believe that people don’t take notice of you. To me, that feels like people taking a stroll outside and not taking notice of the sun. But it means more to me than words can say that you can relate to me in that way. Feeling like you see me, like you really understand me—that doesn’t happen to me often. Especially not with girls as lovely as you. I’m very much looking forward to us getting to know each other better and better.

As far as childhood stories go, I want to make it very clear that Paul and Natasha were solely responsible for any and all mischief that was had in our youth. I was very much just along for the ride. I promise you that it wasn’t my idea to put frogs in our mean teacher’s purse during the school picnic when we were in the third grade. And I certainly wasn’t the one who kidnapped our class hamster so that he could “live a life of freedom in the great outdoors.” Though I will admit I may have been present when the crime was committed. I was a very nerdy and awkward kid, which I’m sure isn’t hard at all for you to imagine, so I do have to credit Paul and Natasha with providing me with some of the most exciting and interesting moments of my life. There’s hardly a memory I have that doesn’t involve the two of them. I think you and Natasha would get on wonderfully. Maybe one day, the two of you will get to meet.

What about you, Miss Peach? Were you a rebel growing up in Georgia, or a goody two shoes like me?

I’m glad to hear that President Roosevelt is keeping you all informed back home, but I’m sorry to hear that the prices are still going up. I know you already mentioned that they started rationing sugar. I hope more rations aren’t coming your way, but, truth be told, I have a sinking feeling that they will be. We’ve been burning through supplies like crazy over here, and it always feels like a scramble to get more of what we need. But I’d still hate to think of you or anyone else having to go without. It just doesn’t seem right. But then, I suppose a lot in this world doesn’t feel right at the moment.

Thank you for sharing the president’s words with me, Peach. I passed them on to the rest of the fellas, and we’re all mighty appreciative of it. I have to say, even if it was Roosevelt’s words, they sounded a lot sweeter coming from you. My safety and comfort feel like a small price to pay if it means that you and my family and the rest of the good folks back home get to rest well each night.

I hate to end my letter to you on a sad note, but thinking of men who aren’t concerned about themselves makes me think of some of the boys that we just lost recently. Just last week, in fact. They weren’t part of my squadron, but I did know several of them. They were a couple years ahead of me at Annapolis, and they were bunking on the carrier with my squadron. Good men, every single one of them. They were shot down during what was supposed to be a fairly routine fly-over. They leave behind mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, fiancées, sweethearts, and friends. But I think a part of them will still be here, so long as those of us who remember them are still around. They were men, like President Roosevelt said, who put duty and country before themselves. And they deserve to be remembered.

We also recently lost some enlisted men—some sailors on a nearby carrier. We’d gotten to know them pretty well these past few months, and it was a tough blow. I was saddest to learn about the death of a boy named Timmy [REDACTED]. I say boy because that’s what he was. We got to talking one night, him and I, and he admitted to me that he was only sixteen. He’d lied about his age and somehow managed to squeak on by—my guess is that with the draft on, they’re willing to look the other way when boys jump up to volunteer. Sixteen years old. I tell you, I don’t think I could have stomached this at sixteen. I can barely stomach it now at twenty-two. I promised him I wouldn’t tell, and I feel a little guilty to be breaking that promise now that he’s gone, but I think someone else besides me should know how brave he was. He gave everything he had for the family and the country that he loved. I know I’ll never forget him. I know I keep piling more and more names on your list, but maybe you can remember him, too? That way, his legacy will live on. I think he’d be happy to know that.

If any of my letters ever feel like too much to you, Peach, please let me know. I don’t want to unburden my own heart at the cost of your peace of mind. I’m thankful for all the ways you listen and make me feel heard, even with the entire Atlantic in between us. Just getting these words down on paper, knowing that you’ll be reading them soon, fills me with a great sense of calm. Has anyone ever told you what a great pen pal you are?

My mother wouldn’t be happy if she heard me admitting this, but sometimes I’m so dead tired at the end of the night that I fall asleep without saying my prayers. On the nights that I do manage to stay awake, however, I pray for you right after my family, you and Paddy and Dottie and Frankie. I pray that you’re safe and happy and well. I’m always glad to hear that it’s so.

Goodbye for now, Peach. I look forward to your next letter, as I always do.

Very Sincerely Yours,

Bobby

November 3, 1942

Dear Bobby,

I was so thrilled to receive your last letter in the mail, but I admit that I was crying like a baby by the end of it. I’m so sorry for the friends that you lost, especially young Timmy. Sorry always seems like such a trite thing to say in the face of such a tragedy, doesn’t it? It doesn’t feel like it encompasses even half of the pain and the grief and the sorrow that follow in the wake of such horror. But for lack of any other words that would suffice, I’m afraid that “I’m sorry” is all that I can say. Please know that I mean it from the very bottom of my heart.

I hope you don’t mind, but I showed the last part of your letter to Dottie. She walked into the kitchen and was very concerned about why I was such a bawling mess, so I thought it would be better if she heard it directly from you. My big sister is much less prone to tears than I am, but even she cried when she read your beautiful tribute to that young man. We went to church the next day and lit candles in honor of Timmy and all the young men who were lost. I’m so incredibly touched that you would want to share their memories with me, Bobby. I will most certainly treasure them in my heart and pass them along to anyone I can. I don’t want them to be forgotten either. I don’t think anyone deserves to be forgotten. Everyone leaves their mark on this world, no matter how tiny it might seem to others. Even at just sixteen, Timmy clearly left his mark.

I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for you over there, flying dangerous missions yourself and watching those around you, men who you’ve shared laughs and good times with, make that final sacrifice. Please don’t ever feel like you can’t share it with me, Bobby. If you have to live it every day, and face that reality, then the very least I can do is lend a listening ear. I’m always here for you, whatever you need to get off your chest.

To be honest, you’re the first real pen pal I’ve ever had. I’m glad to hear that I’m doing a good job, because I happen to think you’re a terrific pen pal, and I wouldn’t want to let you down in return. It’s kind of funny—when I’m sitting down to read your letters or write one of my own, I sometimes forget that there’s an entire ocean between us. Sometimes, when I read your words, it feels like you’re right here next to me. I can hear your voice, even if it was so long ago now that we were last together. And it just makes it all feel so real to me. You’re a rather wonderful writer, you know.

Hm, now let’s see. Which part of your wonderful letter should I respond to next? I have it laid out in front of me right now, so that I don’t miss or forget anything. Should we discuss your mother’s rather unorthodox cure for the flu? I’d never heard of whiskey in a handkerchief before! I thought Paddy was going to split his sides from laughing so hard when I told him and Dottie. He said that he’s not so sure he should be sticking booze in his baby’s face, but that he’d be more than happy to try that remedy himself! We’d only ever been aware of good, old-fashioned chicken noodle soup and lots of rest. I’m hoping we don’t have another influenza scare any time soon, but we’ll be sure to try the whiskey trick if we do.

Now as for seeing the world—I’ve never been flying before. On the one hand, it seems very exciting and exhilarating, but on the other hand, it seems like the most terrifying prospect in the world. Bless those Wright brothers for being the first ones to give it a go. I suppose if I ever wanted to expand my horizons, however, I’d have to get on an airplane. Ocean liners aren’t exactly the most efficient means of travel. And if I’d trust anyone to take me up in the air for the first time, it would be you, Bobby. Like I mentioned once before, my parents went to Paris for their honeymoon, so I’ve always wanted to see it. Did you know that they call it the city of love? I suppose it must be very romantic with a nickname like that. I’ve also always wanted to see Italy—the Colosseum, the Pantheon, all that amazing art. I imagine it must be so magical. Maybe not right this moment, but Rome has certainly survived its fair share of catastrophes, if I remember my history correctly. I’m sure it will survive this, too.

How about you, Bobby? What parts of the world would you like to see when all of this is over?

“Someone to Watch Over Me” is one of my favorite songs. And now every time I hear it, I think of you and that dance we shared at the USO. If that’s the song that you’d like to hear, then I’ll happily start practicing it right away. Mr. Gershwin certainly knew what he was doing when it came to composing, didn’t he?

Don’t tell them this—we wouldn’t want them getting big heads now—but I always find it to be a delight when you share stories of Tommy Boy and Benny. It makes me so happy to know that you have such good friends over there with you. And I always get a good laugh, imagining their antics. You must have the patience of a saint, Bobby, to put up with all of it. As I’ve said before, I know all too well what it’s like to have to hide away to carve out a little peace for letter writing—Dottie is constantly trying to throw her two cents in whenever she can. I actually have Frankie to thank for my solitude at the moment. He’s been a bit fussy, so Dottie hurried off to check on him. I adore my sister more than life itself, but even I can admit that it’s a bit easier to concentrate when she’s distracted.

I absolutely cross my heart that I will never let it slip past my lips that you called our young Clara a baby. It will be our little secret. I’m sure she and Natasha and Paul, Jr. will be thrilled to receive the letter Paul’s writing to them. Paul sounds like such a wonderful husband and father. He reminds me of Paddy in that way. The two of them seem to have a lot in common. Tell Paul that I’m more than happy to lend any assistance I can to helping him pick out the perfect gift for buttering up his wife. Trust me, I’ve helped my dear brother-in-law do it on more than one occasion.

Speaking of Paul and Natasha, I’m shocked to learn they were such little hooligans when the three of you were growing up. Frogs in your teacher’s purse? Kidnapping the classroom hamster? What kind of trouble did you not get into, I should ask? I think that perhaps you were more of a little rebel than you’re willing to admit, Ensign Floyd. I myself was quite the prim and proper little lady growing up back home in Georgia. Believe me, I was much too shy to be getting into any sort of trouble with anyone. Truth be told, I really sort of kept to myself, even when I was a child. But I always had Dottie, thank goodness. She’s four years older, and she’s always looked out for me. She’s my best friend and my biggest champion. It would be lovely to get to meet Natasha one day, too. Any friend of yours must be a delightful person who I’m sure I would like very much.

Your words are sweet as honey, Bobby, and make me feel just as warm and cozy inside. Whenever I’m having a difficult day, or the weight of the world’s troubles feel like they’re pressing down on me, I read your letters and they never fail to make me smile. I always knew that there were good men out there in the world—my father and Paddy have always been prime examples of that to me—but I think I was starting to doubt that there were many men left who were truly kind and good-hearted. You put those fears in my heart to rest. You are such a good man. I know we haven’t known each other long, and that most of our conversations have been through letters, but your warmth and your kindness always shine through.

I may not be able to speak to how unhappy your mother would be to learn about you falling asleep before your prayers—I like to think she’d understand, given the circumstances—but I can say with total confidence, despite never having met her, that she would be very happy and proud to know just what kind of man her oldest son is. I’m sure she already knows and is already so proud.

I keep you in my prayers every night, too, Bobby. You and Paul and his family and Tommy Boy and Benny, and all the rest of your squadron. All I ask for is that you all come home safely. And soon.

You’re in my thoughts. I look forward, as always, to your next letter, whenever it may arrive.

Affectionately Yours,

Peach

P.S. I almost forgot to mention that it was Frankie’s first Halloween! Unfortunately, the annual parade in town was canceled, but everyone still decorated and the children in the neighborhood got to go trick-or-treating. Dottie made Frankie a little pumpkin costume—he was the cutest little pumpkin you ever did see! We still have some candy lying around the house, which I wish I could send to you. Did Clara, Paul, Jr., and your brothers dress up this year? I hope they had lots of fun!

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

All Along the Watchtower (Chapter 3)

Pairing: Captain John Price x Fem!OC (3rd person POV)

Word count: 3K+

Warnings: mentions of violence, human trafficking, morally gray characters, CIA Black missions = shady shit, swearing

Summary: The first flashback chapter for Rory regarding her time in Iraq working operations for the CIA (will tie into the overall story fyi, no ship stuff this chapter)

A/N: Rory Sinclair is a dual citizen (both Canada and the UK) who's been living in the UK since she was 14. She is 28 at the time of this fic, Price is 32. This series is set in 2017 before the events of the first MW game. Rory's thoughts are bold and italicized, other italics are used for emphasis. Will also be available to read on AO3.

2016 - Anbar Province, Iraq / Syrian Border 

“All right, people, you have your orders. This ain’t gonna be pretty. So get your shit on right.”

Rory tried her hardest to ignore the droning voice of Officer Walker, the CIA operative assigned to the squad sitting in the front passenger seat, giving his best military impersonation for the crowd of soldiers jammed together in the armored vehicle. Crammed so tight her shoulders barely had room to bump against her fellow passengers as they drove along the rocky road. They were sardines in a tin can being boiled together on a hot stove – a pressure cooker – and the situation they were about to find themselves in only made it worse. 

“We are fifteen minutes out from the Syrian border. I repeat one - five minutes. This is known home turf for ISIS. We’re expecting heavy resistance. I will remind you all that this is unsanctioned. We are heading into the Black. There will be no questions. There will be no reports. There will be no crying to your mamas on the phone when you get back to base, ‘cause believe me, we’ll be tracking it. That goes for you limey fucks too,” he said with a smirk, looking up into the rearview mirror with his amber eyes. “ God Bless Homeland Security. ”

Walker’s wry smile was enough to turn Rory’s stomach, but she didn’t get to choose her bosses in the middle of warfare. She had to nod her head with a ‘yes, sir’ and a ‘no, sir’ to make her way through this. He might have been American, he might have been CIA, but right now, he was in charge. 

“We are dealing with a serious piece of shit in one Abdullah Al Ghulam, he is our target. I want him kept alive at all costs. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

She said nothing while the other soldiers around her offered their oath of fealty to the man. Instead, Rory kept her head down and her mind focused on the mission. Her mind always had to be on the mission. In situations like these, knowing she was about to see some shit, she did her best to block out the conscience her mother had instilled in her – doing good things for the right people . Out here there was just getting your hands dirty and hoping that it would be for the best, that it paid off in the long run and wouldn’t come back to haunt. The end justifying the means when things went dark like this, Machiavellianism at its very peak. There were no heroes out here, no matter who was patted on the back and awarded medals. 

Across from her Lt. Andrew Owen kept his eyes on her, his blue stare darkened by the brim of his helmet. The corner of his lip curled as he noticed her looking back at him with a ‘can you believe this guy’ flick of her brow, his head shaking slightly in return. He was the second in command of her unit, they seemed to never be too far away from one another, having fought in enough foxholes together to trust that the other had their six, and despite what the mission was expecting to serve them, seeing him there in the vehicle with her did add a certain sense of relative calm to the situation. There was a face in the crowd of strangers that wouldn’t just see her as some waste of space. Andrew knew what she was capable of. All too well . 

As the stream of armored vehicles came to a stop, the soldiers completed their final weapons check as the sun began to fade down into the horizon, streaking the sky in deep orange and red like the hellfire they were about to rain down. Readying their thermal scopes and night vision, making sure their tac gear was strapped on tight, the doors opened, and shadows crept out into the evening. 

Rory swung the strap of her rifle over her head and across her shoulder, looking out at the sky turned purple, the sun nearly completely gone down except for one lingering sliver of light along the horizon line. Pulling down on the goggles that would help lead her into the dark, seeing only in green and black as she marched forward, she followed her Lieutenant into battle. He was quick to give her a bump to the shoulder, that last little bit of comfort from a friend before hitting any possible SNAFUs. 

“You good, Sinclair?” he whispered into the comm.

“Yeah. Same old, same old. Right, Andy?”

Chuckling at the nickname, a smile cracked his otherwise serious face, “Fuck you.”

Tensions were relieved for only a moment, building right back up as boots crunched slowly through the sand and small bits of gravel towards the munitions bunker American intelligence had confirmed the existence of several klicks across the border with the use of drones. It was up to her and the rest of the squad to clear out the guard of enemy combatants, neutralize the weapons, and then collect the intel that would lead to who had actually shipped them in. Weapons didn’t come from nowhere, there was always a trail that led back. 

Silently stalking into the night, radio chatter was kept to an absolute minimum, hand signals being used instead. They’d crossed the border into enemy territory, they were no longer within the boundaries they were meant to maintain, they were in a country they weren’t at war with – not yet anyway. The squad broke up into two units, flanking the building in a pincer movement that would leave the resistance fighting from two opposing directions. Rory was split off with Walker and Lt. Owen, coming in from the rear of the bunker along with several other NATO soldiers of different rank and file, while the others stormed the front with charges to the doors. 

Shock and awe . 

Explosions rang out into the night, flashes of white light sparking from the corner of Rory’s night vision, the heat blurring her view for just a moment. She gripped her rifle a little tighter as they moved forward, heading down towards the opposite entrance of the complex. The heavy doors were locked tight, so C4 was strapped on in order to breach. Flying open along with a blast of sand, the doors were left to creak on their hinges as the soldiers entered before the ringing in their ears could quiet. 

Black figures stormed through the halls lined with flickering fluorescent lights, the sounds of gunshots and yelling echoing as the B squad moved to meet them in the middle. Bullets ripped through the air, bodies falling. This wasn’t a precise operation, a striking opposite from the way Rory usually worked. Shifting from shock to all out bedlam for the enemy, the dead littered the bunker as the force pushed through the halls. They weren’t taking prisoners here, no hostages, this was meant to be a clean sweep except for the target, clearing all rooms of anyone armed or considered dangerous.

Room after room, corridor after corridor, this place seemed to go on forever. Some passages ran tighter than others but would lead into expansive rooms and from them more men would appear, gun spray missing the soldiers as they fired haphazardly. There would only be casualties on one side tonight as the enemy seemed to swarm like insects, wave after wave, protecting what lay at the heart of the labyrinth of tunnels. Cut down as the soldiers expected more to rise from their place. 

Heading down one of the tunnels, it steadily grew darker as Rory’s squad moved away from the main hall. The lamps above glowed with warm, golden light, yet shadows still bloomed against the walls of the corridor. Another heavy steel door blocked their path at the end, and Walker was sure that was the entrance to Abdullah’s private area, sectioned off from everyone else like the queen in a nest. 

Taking point at the door, Walker motioned for one of the other soldiers to come forward with the charges to breach, and the blood in Rory’s ears began to thunder with each pump of her heart, the sweat starting to form on her brow. It didn’t matter how many times she was in a situation like this, how practiced of a routine it had become, she still had that frantic moment just before hell was about to break loose. When the anxious prey animal in her head was set free before the chomping jaws of the wolf would clamp back down again and she’d return to calm. Battle readiness swept over her as the adrenaline spread through her body, keeping her head on a swivel. 

With a massive bang and a gust of rushing air, the door was breached and once more they dove headfirst into the unknown. The darkness dissipated and the lights of sconces on the walls lit their way to Al Ghulam who threw himself down on to his knees without an order, wasting no time in placing his hands behind his head, as if he already knew he wouldn’t be sacrificed despite his crimes. 

Rory’s hawklike gaze travelled over their newly acquired prisoner, surprised to find a man who was still clean cut and wearing a well-tailored shirt and pants and smooth leather boots, despite having been in a bunker for apparently some time, using this as his headquarters. He was a man who still held onto his ties to the West, despite working with terrorist organizations that actively despised the nations that made up its colonial powers. 

Stalking up to the man, Walker grabbed the zip ties from his vest and slapped them around Abdullah’s wrists. “Well shit, you went down easy, huh?”

“Allaenat ealayk." <Arabic: Fuck you.>

“You gonna call me an American pig while you’re at it?” He looked down at the prisoner, his brow raised waiting for an answer, but he was met with only silence. “That’s what I thought. So, Mr. Al Ghulam I think you already know why we’re down here, so why don’t you save us nice people some trouble and lead us to your stash, ‘kay?”

Dark eyes rose to look at the American through a furrowed brow. “There are no weapons here,” he said confidently. 

“You can fuck right off with that bullshit; I know for a fact –”

“You know nothing, fucking CIA.” Abdullah’s eyes scoured the officer with a glare. “You are led by your masters, but you don’t know anything at all.”

Grabbing Abdullah by the collar of his shirt, Walker lifted him to his feet and looked him in the eyes. “I know what I need to. And right now, you’re gonna play your role and lead me to the containers I know you have kept here.”

“Containers yes, but there are no weapons.”

“Sure there aren’t.” Walker shoved the man forward, causing him to stumble as he was pushed past the soldiers. 

Rory’s stare followed him out of the room, focused on Walker and Al Ghulam. Containers, but no weapons – what was that supposed to mean? She looked to her Lieutenant, the question caught on her tongue, but it came through in her furrowed brow. Andrew gave her no answer, he didn’t have any more to go on than she did, but his jaw sat clenched. 

They followed the CIA operative down, further down into the bunker. Metal stairs clanging as the boots of a dozen soldiers stomped upon them. Finally entering a massive room with a large roll up bay door at the end of it. Storage space, a delivery system, this base was well-established. Placed in the middle of the room were six large metal shipping containers and Walker’s eyes went wide at the sight. 

“Alright, people, I want those doors opened. We’re taking inventory and then sweeping for intel.”

Using large bolt cutters, the locks on the containers were removed by the soldiers, but upon opening the doors it brought no peace. There weren’t any weapons as was promised, just as Al Ghulam had said, there was something else. Something that made Rory’s stomach drop and her eyes go wide with horror. 

Inside each container sat women and children. Weeping and starving, treated like cattle. Their clothes dirty, the smell of body odor near unbearable as it wafted throughout the room.

“ Jesus Christ… ” Rory could only speak in a whisper, eyes glued to the sight before her. 

Bolt cutters fell to the cement floor with a heavy bang. Soldiers stood, shocked so quiet they could hear a pin drop. The flashlights of a dozen rifles travelled over the tear-streaked faces of innocent people caught in the crossfire of a war that had been going on for too long. Herded into pens, treated like property, to be sent off to God only knew where. 

She seethed, a deep-seated anger in her making her blood run cold. Violence she’d seen and dealt with, able to manage it and push it down to where it no longer kept her up at night. Such abhorrent behavior towards human lives however, that was something she couldn’t shut out. Her gut twisted, the stoic exterior breaking as her mouth hung open and her eyes began to sting. 

Children and women reached out towards the soldiers, seeing their captor pushed to his knees and a gag shoved in his mouth. They thought the forces were there to save them and it broke Rory’s heart. They weren’t heroes, they weren’t here to save the day, if Walker had his way these civilians would likely be left here for some clean-up crew to deal with. Lives didn’t matter, just having the upper hand in the fight did. 

Walker stood, his hand pressed to Al Ghulam’s shoulder as he forced the man to stay on his knees, but his face never seemed to change. Even as his amber eyes travelled over the countless faces that sat before him, the sickening sight had little effect on the man who had filled his life with secrets, lies, and deception, all to keep the power imbalance for the empire of America going strong. 

“What the fuck is this?” Rory looked to Walker, her lips drawn back in a snarl. “What the fuck is this, Walker? I thought we were coming down here for weapons.”

“Yeah, we were. Intel was wrong,” he said with a shrug.

“How did no one know about this?” She tossed her arm out towards the half dozen steel cargo containers filled with women and children. 

“Calm down, soldier. You think in an active war zone we got the time to be looking for missing persons? You think that’s what we’re here for? You think we give a shit about that? We are fighting terrorists, we are not the fucking UN,” Walker snapped.

Rory took off her helmet and held onto it by the straps, stabbing her tongue into her cheek if only to compose herself. “I think that whatever the fuck this asshole has going on –” Her attention turned to the man on his knees currently bound and gagged before her eyes darted back to Walker. “It’s a lot worse than whatever you or anyone else has been led to believe.”

The CIA officer stared her down, his face growing harder as he glared at her from under his brow. Unmoved by her compassion for humanity, he had a job to do and she was hindering those efforts. 

“Don’t go pulling any heroics, Sinclair,” Andrew hissed, grabbing her arm and pulling her closer to him until he could talk low enough for only her to hear. “We don’t need to go any deeper than this. This is above our paygrade already. We’re just here to shoot, remember ?” His glare stabbed into her as if to caution her next move. “I'd like to keep it that way.”

Her brow knit together, her jaw tightening ever still. It was like she was the only one who could see what was happening, the only one with clarity of mind to know that something monstrous was going on here and it sunk deep into the bowels of things. There was an unseen side to war, and she had yet to have gotten a stomach for it. “There are women and children locked up in steel boxes like cargo. I don’t care if this isn’t the weapon shipment we were sent in for. You think I'm going to turn a blind eye to that?”

“I think we shouldn’t push our CIA friend.”

It was a warning. Andrew had been around this block more times than she, he knew how bad things could get, but still she couldn’t understand how he wouldn’t object to what was happening here. “ Andy ?” She was taken aback by her Lieutenant’s sudden willful withdrawal of his conscience. They were at war, weapons were something she expected, a human trafficking ring was not on her list of things to discover in a bunker.

“Listen to me, Rory. We let Officer Walker do what he needs to with our target, and you and I stay quiet. Do you understand me, Sergeant?” Rory’s eyes drifted away from Andrew and back over to Walker, still holding onto Abdullah like a hostage before Lieutenant Owen grabbed her arm and brought her attention back to him as her superior. “There’s a reason the CIA wants him kept alive when it would be so easy to just put a bullet in his head. I’d prefer not to be privy to all that. Clear?”

“Rog’,” she said sullenly.

“Good. Now then let’s say we help Officer Walker here find a private room where he can hold a discussion with Mr. Al Ghulam. The sooner we can get out of here, the better.”

Rory nodded, her face sunken into a scowl. She hated being beholden to a law that didn’t even truly exist, a shadow of the rule of justice that was meant to be carried out, where war crimes and human rights violations were swept under the rug so long as the right hands were greased and information could be swapped between hands. It was dirty, stained in red, and going into the black meant it would never come to light. 

[lepoppeta]

What would some of your favorite characters from other media be up to in the hazbin universe?

real talk but i turned the main characters from my bioshock au into helluva boss demons - ive been way too embarrassed about posting about it before, and also im afraid of the backlash of people getting snippy that im mixing fandoms like that (i remember the warrior cats fans got REALLY annoyed about people doing dream smp crossovers at the time when that was popular). that being said, i saw a bioshock x hazbin hotel crossover comic just the other day, so if they can do it, why cant i?

jack is a bird-like demon from the goetia family (i think i based him off of some sort of falcon), as are his parents (jasmine i depict as a swan, and andrew ryan is a rooster). atlas is an incubus, subject delta is a hellhound and sinclair is an imp. im not sure what the other characters would be - sofiya lamb i considered as another goetia family member (since shes identified as one of "raptures finest" in bioshock2) therefore making at least my version of eleanor a very strange hellhound-bird hybrid.

some elements of stolas actually inspired me to expand on jacks pov in the original au more, especially after "owl in a cage" / "stolas speaks" came out at the beginning of season two - this person with a lot of apparent power ("apparent" being the operative word here) who, due to immense emotional neglect and societal pressure, decided to indulge in their own selfish desires instead of doing something more useful. after regaining his memories, jack figures that his behaviour had been shallow due to his intense loneliness ("whats between you and i? just a comfortable lie") and he vows to make sure that his new family have his full effort to make up for his ignorance.

im not sure if events as they are in the bioshock au would transpire the exact same way as they would in the world of helluva boss, but its fun to think about how the story might change. for instance, with the inclusion of the little sisters, this would mean Super-tall Bird Demon Jack and his Medium-Sized Incubus Lover Atlas would end up adopting a gaggle of Teeny-tiny Itty Bitty Little Imp Girlies, which i think is beyond cute. i think delta in this instance would be hired muscle, and sinclair is his newest employer whos weirdly amiable with him.

[hopingforcoordinates]

so happy you're back with another chapter! one question, do you intend to do more chapters from Andrew's point of view? I saw here on tumblr, it seems like there was another besides what you wrote separately, but I don't know if its true, however you write so wonderfully, it would be amazing to see more of it through his eyes

Aw thank you very much, anon! I'm planning to do one more Unkindness chapter from Andrew's POV and then possibly maybe a short little post-Unkindness thing from his POV too.

[luxcuriousao3]

Dove: A Zombie Ghost Story (Chapter Two)

Summary: He shuffled back some, giving her plenty of space. Enough that she could get out of her hiding spot and run away, if she wanted to. He would follow her again if she did, a hidden, monstrous protector. But he didn't want to hide. He wanted to be next to her, to have her ask him more questions, to not be alone, anymore… Word Count: 2129 Warnings: no smut this chapter (this fic is the slowest of burns y'all, strap in for a looooong ride), vague, brief references to unspecified abuse in the OC's backstory, semi-graphic violence, POV switches denoted by line breaks Notes: This is by far the shortest chapter in this fic as it currently stands. I am thinking of doing a double update today to make it up to the few of you who read this, whoever you are XD let me know if that is something y'all would like. AO3, Masterlist

Lelia woke up slowly, sore and confused. She wasn’t in the bed she shared with Andrew, back at the base, stealing precious hours of sleep in the time that he was gone, unable to relax when he was lying next to her. No, she was somewhere else, somewhere that smelled of damp earth and—rot?

Lelia opened her eyes, trying to figure out where she was—and then screamed at the nightmarish sight that greeted her.

Milky white eyes stared at her through a dirty, broken skull mask. The zombie’s jaw hung open, bloody, grey flesh peeled away from its sharp teeth and blackened gums, leaving them exposed threateningly. Lelia tried to back away, but she was cornered, stuck in a trap of her own making.

It was then that the events of last night came back to her, and she sucked in a breath as she realized the zombie in front of her, who was now groaning quietly as it—moved away from her? What?—was the same one from last night, the one that had scared off all the others that had left her stranded in a tree. The one that had almost seemed to understand her when she’d begged for help, and then for it to go away…

***

Ghost hadn’t left his little dove’s side all night, standing over her like her very own guard dog. The comparison would’ve bothered him, when he was human—but he was more beast than man, now, so he simply thought it was fitting.

The zombies he’d heard earlier had indeed caught his dove's delicious scent, but one deep, rumbling growl from him had scared them off when they’d gotten too close for comfort. He’d checked afterwards to make sure he hadn’t woken her, but the poor thing hadn’t so much as twitched. Her utter lack of survival instincts dumbfounded him. He had no idea how she’d made it this long. But he was oddly glad for it, even if it concerned him. The end of the world hadn’t taken her softness from her, and he knew it would have been just as intriguing to him when he was alive as it was now. Ghost had never had something soft in his life, and his undeath had stripped him of everything warm, too. She was both. It made him want to curl around her like a shield, and protect her from the horrors of the world. To keep that innocent spirit from breaking. And he could, now, in a way he wouldn't have been able to do before. Because he had no other purpose, anymore. She could give him one, and if only she’d let him stay, maybe she could give him some of that warmth and softness, too…

Hours later, he heard her begin to stir. He took another step back from her little hideout, but crouched down so she could see his face, his stiff knees creaking ominously. He knew it wasn’t exactly a comforting sight, but he hoped that she might be slightly less frightened if she recognized him from last night, the zombie that had saved her and then let her go, rather than thinking he was some random infected.

When she screamed bloody murder upon seeing him, though, he reevaluated. It had been quite a while since he’d seen his own reflection—maybe he looked even worse than he thought…

Ghost automatically raised his hands as if to show he wasn’t a threat. That only made her curl in on herself, though, like she was expecting him to lunge for her. Which, well, of course she was. He was a zombie. A flesh eating monster. And she smelled so good…

He grunted as he shook the thought out of his virus-laden brain. His little dove let out a small, terrified noise, burying her sweet face in her knees, so he stopped. He wished he could tell her that he wasn’t going to hurt her, but every noise or move he made only seemed to scare her further. How was he supposed to explain that he was different from the other walking corpses? That he wanted to protect her, not eat her?

He looked down at the dirt, and he had an idea. He clumsily swiped away the leaves and other debris, then began to drag his fingertips through the clean patch of dirt. He was trying to write a single word—safe—but as he went to draw the first letter, he realized he didn't know what it was.

The thought made him go still. How did he not know how to spell such a simple word? He was no genius, but he wasn’t a bloody idiot, either.

Ghost growled, frustrated and more than a little bit afraid. He didn’t want to admit what he knew to be true—that the virus had destroyed so much of his brain that he was now illiterate. It was maddening. It was terrifying. He’d already known he was just a shell of his former self, barely clinging to his humanity, and yet…

“Wh-why aren’t you trying to e-eat me?”

Ghost looked up so fast that his broken jaw wobbled precariously, almost looking like it was about to fall off. He reached up and tried to put it back into place, to seem just a tad more human, but it simply fell open again as soon as he let go, dangling uselessly. None of that mattered, though, because she was talking to him. For the first time since he’d been infected, he was having a conversation. He would have smiled if he could have, so bright that Johnny would’ve asked him who he was and what he’d done with the real Ghost.

Who’s Johnny?

Ghost didn't know the answer to that question, but he didn’t linger on the wisps of longing and grief that came with it, nearly giddy from his dove’s question. She looked like she didn’t truly expect him to understand her, let alone answer, but the fact that she’d asked at all was enough. This was his chance. He couldn’t fuck this up. He couldn’t.

He shuffled back some, giving her plenty of space. Enough that she could get out of her hiding spot and run away, if she wanted to. He would follow her again if she did, a hidden, monstrous protector. But he didn't want to hide. He wanted to be next to her, to have her ask him more questions, to not be alone, anymore…

He settled down onto the ground fully, and then stiffly patted the spot next to him, inviting her to come sit. He didn't expect her to, even if he hoped she would—he just wanted to show her that he wasn’t a mindless animal, nor a threat. He wished he had food to give her, or even just a blanket. Anything to prove that he came in peace, and that he was useful to have around.

***

“You… you want me to sit with you?”

Lelia could hardly believe the words coming from her mouth, or the sight in front of her. A zombie, staring at her rather than eating her, inviting her to come sit next to it. A zombie that bobbed its head at her question and let out a soft groan, like it was trying to say why yes, yes I do.

Lelia was officially insane.

“Are you going to eat me?”

She was crazy, and she was going even crazier for entertaining the notion that a walking corpse could understand her, could communicate with her. All the survivors on the base had said the infected ceased to be human the second they turned. The second they were bitten, in some of the more ruthless soldiers’ opinions.

She shivered at the memory. She didn't like soldiers. She didn’t trust them, not anymore. Not after what they’d done to her. And as she really looked at the zombie, she realized something terrible—he was one of them. Or he had been. It was all so confusing…

The zombie shook its head stiffly, broken, hanging jaw clacking as it jerked back and forth at the movement. It was incredibly disturbing. She looked away.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed in a whisper after a long moment, still not looking at the undead soldier. She didn't know why she was still talking to it. She should stop. She shouldn’t play into whatever delusion this was. But she couldn’t seem to control herself. “I don’t know how to survive out here. But I won’t go back. I won’t.”

The zombie made what could have been considered a questioning noise, if Lelia was insane. She turned to glare at its terrifying, rotting face and its black, bloody, ragged tactical gear.

“The military base,” she answered, like it had actually asked. Her narrowed eyes were haunted as she stared at it angrily, tears threatening to fall. “I know what evils you soldiers are capable of. And I won’t suffer them, not anymore. I’d rather be torn apart.”

The zombie groaned quietly, lowering its head, almost as if it was ashamed. Of what, she didn't know. Being military? Or its fellow soldiers’ cruelty? No. Lelia was just projecting. It was probably a groan of hunger.

She swallowed nervously at the thought, shifting like she was going to try and make a run for it, because she was. But the zombie’s gaze darted back up, and she froze. But when it didn’t move, she slowly began crawling out of her little tree hollow again, until she was standing over it’s crouched form, staring down into empty white eyes. Gathering her scraps of bravery, she turned her back on it and began walking away from it as quickly as she could, still too sore and tired to run like she wanted to.

She looked over her shoulder so many times during that first hour, she lost count. The zombie had followed her once already—what was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

That was, if it was even real. She had begun to convince herself it wasn’t, at least not this second time. It had to have been real last night, there was no other explanation as to how she was still alive. But today? There was just no way. It had seemed far too intelligent to be real, today. She’d practically had a conversation with it!

She shook her head, letting out a huff of disbelieving laughter. No. Last night had been an anomaly, a fluke, some sort of strange zombie infighting, maybe some territorial hierarchical dominance ritual…

Lelia was definitely losing it.

Finally, she felt confident enough that no zombie soldier, figment of her imagination or not, was following her, and she stopped bothering to check. She was on a mission to find… something. Something to eat, something to drink, somewhere safe and warm to rest. Just… something. Anything to help her live another day.

After several more hours, in which Lelia had truly begun to flag, fate took pity on her, and brought her to a run down cabin in the middle of the woods. She quickened her steps, stumbling through the door, desperate to get out of the cold.

She barely had a second to notice the infected waiting inside before it was upon her.

Lelia screamed, trying to get away, but the woman’s stumbling corpse held on tight, jaws snapping in her face. Lelia barely managed to keep it from biting her, using all her strength to hold it back. But her arms were already trembling, and with every second, the gnashing teeth were getting closer.

This is it, she thought, terrified. This is how I die.

Suddenly, the zombie was ripped off of her, and Lelia fell to the ground, watching with wide eyes as her zombie—the one she’d seen last night and hallucinated this morning—slammed the other against the wall, over and over again until it finally stopped moving. A dark patch of black blood stained the wood where its head had been after the undead soldier dropped it, and Lelia stared at it, dazed and confused.

Suddenly, she felt gloved hands on her body, quickly running up and down her limbs. She shrieked, kicking out as she tried to scramble away. Her foot connected with something hard, but it didn’t move. It just let out a familiar grunt and released her.

Lelia froze, her panic clearing enough to register her zombie standing over her, taking a step back as it let out a gurgling noise. It had touched her. It had killed the undead that was trying to eat her, and it had touched her. She’d felt it.

It wasn’t a hallucination. “You’re real,” she breathed, feeling dizzy at the realization. “You’re real, and you’re not eating me, and you’re— you’re protecting me. How? Why?”