#undead opossum

[sebthesmoll-art]

🩸Bloodlust 🩸

Just a small illustration of my current main oc, a undead opossum guy that's cursed with demon power. He's got a bunch of lore, but I won't lore dump just yet, first he needs a small ref sheet and a pngtuber for future art streams lol

vvv Bloodied version under cut vvv

[bug-memory]

Guardian

[weewidget]

Art Fight: Charlie

I'm trying to finish up posting all my Artfight pieces today! Here's Charlie, whose design is amazing and I love it. They are awesome.

[tiredstarcat]

Something that I've started doing is just reporting the sound ads as malicious. It makes them disappear for a bit.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[spinningwebsandtales]

Imagine Beetlejuice Helping You Through A Bad Day

Beetlejuice X FemReader

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of gross stuffs, dead things, Beej being Beej, suggestive themes

Word Count: 1k

(A/N:) I got a little gross with this one guys! But it's Beetlejuice what do you expect?! Consider this my second Halloween fic of the season! Happy reading and hauntings! ~Countess

Your apartment door felt so far away as you trudged up the stairs. Work had been awful, you woke up exhausted, all your chores were piling up, and you didn't know how you were going to get enough energy to make dinner tonight. You decided to order out, though it would be the third time this week. Biting your lip you fought back the tears as several people elbowed you while passing you on the stairs. You were an emotional wreck and you refused to break down until you entered into your apartment where you could be yourself. As soon as your bag hit the floor and your shoes went flying, you broke. Tears rolling down your cheeks, you let out all the frustrations of the day. You never let yourself break in front of anyone, you always waited until you made it home. But there was one person you felt comfortable enough to show your real emotions to. He had a knack for making you feel better, no matter your mood and he could be by your side in seconds. Sniffing loudly and wiping your nose on your sleeve you said the word that could bring your best friend to you.

"Beetlejuice."

The air grew still.

"Beetlejuice."

The temperature began to drop.

"Beetlejuice."

A evil cackle rang through your ears as your apartment began to shake.

Immediately the atmosphere changed and you could feel yourself getting better.

"What's up babes," that deep rough voice sounded behind you.

You turned looking up at Beetlejuice. He had the usual smirk on his face but it fell instantly the moment he noticed the tear tracks down your cheeks and how you seemed paler than normal. He was pale all the time so it didn't matter what he looked like. Normally he didn't concern himself with the matters of living flesh bags but you were different. You made him feel wanted and he didn't like when you weren't feeling your best.

"Rough day," he asked.

You nodded, trying to fight the tears again but it didn't work. The waterworks broke through and you mushed your face into his cold, stripe suited chest. Stunned Beetlejuice stood there, his undead heart dropping into his stomach. You hung on to him tightly until you were able to control your emotions a little better.

"You have no idea," you hiccupped. He dug around in the liner pocket of his suit jacket. All sorts of bugs and critters leapt from Beej's searching dirty fingers. Bits of unidentified things fell to the floor before skittering away, the ghost constantly muttering to himself as he searched for whatever he wanted in his pocket.

He pulled one piece out that looked like a centipede, "Saving that one for later." He winked and went back to digging. Finally he pulled a soiled handkerchief from the pocket and offered it to you with a slight flourish. You shook your head and went to grab a tissue from your bathroom counter.

"It's bad if you're desperate enough to summon me."

"You're my best friend Beej. Unlike the jerks I work with."

"That's a little sad there babes."

"Beej!"

"Hey I'm sorry," throwing his hands up. "I make your world go round huh?!" That time his head began to spin and you couldn't help but laugh. "You make my head spin around apparently too. C'mon over here and give me a hug."

You snorted but went to him anyway, "You're such an idiot Beej."

"I'm your idiot though."

You sighed before leaning back a little bit, "You smell like death."

Beetlejuice preened, "Only the best for you babe. It's a new cologne Eau De Dead Opossum. Main fragrant notes of bloated opossum, with a hint of maggot swill, and ending notes of sun baked dog vomit."

"Mmmm no wonder you smell like an atrocity to mankind," you snickered and tried to pull away.

"Don't run baby! Let Beej take all those bad vibes away and replace them with nightmares beyond your wildest dreams. Need me to bio-exercise someone? Possess them? Make their life a living nightmare? Makes my heart beat in excitement. Y'know if it still beat in there."

This time you couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks Beetlejuice."

"Ah ah watch it. Don't make me disappear too soon. The fun is just startin'! You get me all hot and bothered babe."

"Beej you're dead how can you get hot?"

"Trust me," he grinned, suggestively waggling his eyebrows.

"Gross."

"Now how about me and you go out and do whatever you living people enjoy doing! Kicking puppies? Robbing graves? Arson?"

You shook your head, "How about I order pizza and you watch a movie with me."

"Only if I get to sit in your lap," Beetlejuice picked at his teeth and wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

"You can lay your head in my lap," you retorted.

"Fine take all the fun out of my life will ya!"

"I could just send you back," you threatened. Though your tone of voice was anything but threatening.

"I'll be good I promise," Beej exclaimed.

"Your fingers are crossed behind your back," you glared.

"Curses caught again!"

He took your hand leading directly to the little living room, his fingers interlacing with yours. He kissed the back of your hand and waited for you to order pizza for delivery. It wasn't lost on you how the living made your life an absolute nightmare but you found a great friendship with the most obnoxious ghost imaginable. But he could be more real than anyone you came face to face with. That's why you felt like you could trust Beetlejuice more than others. And he made you laugh. He always seemed to be there for you and it was more than anything you could ever ask for from a person. As you sat by his side waiting for the pizza and discussing what you both wanted to watch, you completely forgot of all the horrors that had happened today. It was just you and Beetlejuice and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[thaumaturgy-tiger]

Ok so I’m not a biologist but basically. Opossums are resistant to rabies because their body temp is too low for the virus to survive.

And I personally like the headcanon that Jason is like, a little bit zombie-like still, and runs colder than average, and so basically what I’m saying is rabies-resistant Jason Todd.

I think this has the potential to be very funny. Or angsty. Like Jason gets bit by a rabid raccoon or something and everything thinks he’s dying again in the worst way but he’s actually fine guys he’s built different.

Also the connection of opossums playing dead and Jason being undead etc that I’m too lazy to articulate right now but MOSTLY the rabies thing

[mysticstarlightduck]

Extra 2.0 OC Favorites!

Let's go with Beck Staudder and Aspen Staudder from Crash Stardom! for this one (:

Rules: share photos of your OCs' favorite color, season, shoe choice, weapon, food & drink, clothing style, mode of transportation, animal, pastime, and breakfast and if they're an introvert/ambivert/extrovert then change up any one of the five favorite things categories for the next round. BONUS: Add some music/songs that fit their aesthetic (the songs don't have to be their favorite songs, just fit their vibe)!

Beck Staudder

Favorites:

Color: Deep Crimson

Shoe: Fancy Dress Shoes with a slight heel

Weapon: Pistol/Gun

Food: Roasted Chicken Skewers with cheese

Drink: Fresh Blood

Style: Flowy ruffled shirt with slightly poofy sleeves, fancy arm braces, black trousers and sometimes a coat.

Mode of Transportation: Shadowmancy (uses shadows to travel when in full health and unshackled) or driving around

Animal: Red Fox

Pastime: Crocheting and Macramé

Breakfast: Chocolate Croissants

Personality: Introvert and ✨T R A U M A T I Z E D✨

Songs:

Headlock - Imogen Heap

Nightmare - Avenged Sevenfold

Another Way Out - Hollywood Undead

So Cold - Ben Cocks, Nikisha Reyes-Pile

everything I wanted - Billie Eilish

Aspen Staudder

Favorites:

Color: Turquoise

Season: Spring

Shoe Choice: Knee-High Converse

Weapon: Her claws

Food Choice: Pasta with Bolognese sauce and cheese

Drink: Mildly Hot Chocolate

Style: Comfy sweaters or hoodies in earthy tones, grey tights and denim or twill shorts, or in chillier weather sweatpants/jeans.

Mode of Transportation: Walking around - sometimes she asks Beck to drive her around

Animal: Opossum (she's got those possum vibes LMAO)

Pastime: Watching niche 50s movies

Breakfast: Eggs and sausages

Personality: Ferally Introverted

Songs:

Bad Dreams - Faouzia

Pale - Within Temptation

Fangs - Neoni

Unsweetened Lemonade - Amélie Farren

I Will Not Bow - Breaking Benjamin

Source for pictures: Pinterest, all rights reserved to rightful developers

My Taglist (-/+): @ray-writes-n-shit, @sarandipitywrites, @lassiesandiego, @smol-feralgremlin, @kaylinalexanderbooks,

@diabolical-blue @oh-no-another-idea

@cakeinthevoid, @clairelsonao3,

@thepeculiarbird

@the-golden-comet, @urnumber1star, @ominous-feychild, @anyablackwood, @amaiguri,

@lyutenw @finickyfelix

@thecomfywriter, @the-letterbox-archives, @differentnighttale @wyked-ao3

@thelovelymachinery @an-indecisive-nerd

@zinabug-writes @dahliaontherun @stillalivelol666

Let me know if you'd like to be added!

[sebthesmoll-art]

*Insert Opossum meme here*

Just a silly undead opossum guy, probably doing crimes

[bug-memory]

A cartoony Harold n Muriel

[bones-and-booze-stills]

**Mobile ran over. he had several bite marks all over his face and arms.** "Hey.. uhm-.. Stephen. I got bitten by a bunch of opossums, and they looked very undead. so.. any advice?" --Mobile. (Gets too confident with opossums.)🕰

Well give me ONE good reason why I should help you...considering you just JUMPED ME A COUPLE DAYS AGO-

[scr-ppup]

Coinfight prep info. Team villains

I'm going to already tell y'all I'm a throughout guy lol and this is fuckig long. Feel free to check around idk, it consists of things about me and so on like last year. It's big to give people an idea for things to coin and what I'm good with being included in and so on. If you have any questions, feel free to ask and I'll at least try to answer.

Lil nitpick info btw

- I will most likely be making primarily alterhuman or general non-gender specific related flags. That's been happening quite a lot recently so might continue on that path lol.

Edit: related to the upper text, I'm focusing on gender flags instead since I wanna get back to gender coining again. :)

- Please ask me for a revenge chain if you wish to do one. Since my school starts at the same week of the event, I'm not sure how well my spoons will hold up and I don't want to end up leaving anyone on the shore with a started revenge chain lol.

- I'm more than welcoming of combo, themed, and non-gender flags and terms, this including from aldernic & dissos, to misce to orientation & MAD related flags.

///

So starting on interests & themes

- medias; Ninjago & dragons rising, Voltron legendary defender, Arknights, CoD franchise, criminal minds, subway surfers, code 8 & part 2, BNHA, school bus graveyard webcomic, the blank city webcomic,

— character specific; Subway surfers; frank, miss Maia. Criminal minds; Aaron hotchner & Spencer Reid. CoD franchise; the shadow company & KorTac (Phillip Graves, Velikan), the konni group (Makarov), Terminus Outcomes (Sona "keres" Mirzoyan). Ninjago; Garmadon, pythor, the dragons, the wolf clan, the stone army. SBG; Ashlyn & Logan.

- Bands; Hollywood undead, fall out Boy, class animals, new medicine, arrested youth, get scared, Jann, Kesha, ashnikko, femtanyl, creepP, odetari, scene queen, derivakat, graveyard guy, arctic monkeys, poor man's poison, ado, Luluyam, set it off, the ooze, jazmin bean, baby bugs, cassytte, and lustsickpuppy,

- I enjoy splatterpunk, medical horror and generally horror themed things. Also gorey and macabre art and literature, devotional love to someone or an entity and self destruction for that love.

- animals: reptiles; bearded dragons (pogonas) especially!! (<- owner of pogonas vitticeps) Snakes. Raccoons, opossums, hyenas, jackals, magpies, ravens, cats. Pitbulls, greyhounds, borzois, dobermans.

- medical themes are welcome, no cutesy nurse-related things though. When I mean medical, I mean combat/field medic and doctor professions specifically with themes related to my interests. Also mad and cruel scientists !! :3

- taxidermy, hunting, bones, dead Animals & mysticism behind that. grotesque, death, suffering, and whump themes are more than welcomed.

- apocalyptic and scavenger themes, gas masks, apocalyptic fashion

///

Identity;

Gender labels and related; genderqueer, genderless, demi(gender)fluid, androgyne, boynymgirl, cisneutral, muttgender, divinemutt, whumpgender, theorpangender, gendervir

Lurkerian, Slasherval, marvlaen, Hazexiv, Exulancian, Gorture, limerencial, homipavren, lectence, dimensen, altumen

Mōna transmasculine, transandrogynous, and transneutral. (Thistle) femmetwink, green anole, mutt, pedigree, flying lemur leaning raccoon, lasiurus, black squirrel, jumping spider, opossum, harbringer, final person, chinchilla, GNC, tomboy.

Orientation labels; achilligirl, sapphic achillean/sapphillean, gay, quroplatonic & queerplatonic, Apothderium attraction, euclidean aroace, aroacespec, sunne lesbian, tulipian.

MAD stuff: ADHD (heavily suspected by self & family), AVPD-ish, religious delusions, social anxiety, social anhedonic, MADD adjacent immersive daydreaming. sleep issues. (I'm also hypermobile with a fucked up knee and get bouts of chronic pain due to this and costochondritis lol.)

Alterhumanity related labels; nonhuman, transspecies, paraanthro, alteranthro, holothere, fictionkin. Immersive. Lith.

If needed, undercut is the whole list of what I am for individual things. It also features info of my misceverse identity at the very bottom. Okay, bbyyeee.

///

Alterhumanity

Alterhuman (preferring nonhuman terminology instead of alterhuman), transspecies, otherkin, and holotheres and such. I'm polykin and my alterhumanity spans morely from neurodiversity, attachments, disconnections, and trauma (I'd describe that as being apothane). I also use plenty of dissodic and aldernic terms.

Specifics —

Holotheres; undead, zombie, apocalyptic scavenger, medic, Ashlyn banner (from school bus graveyard.). Creature/cryptid, eldritch (mimic that mimics humans), faceless, glicthed & winged being separately. Hostiakind/hostiaen, immortal. Mutt/hound, hound-/dog-/puppyboy hybrid/kemonomimi. Kalma.

fiction; Sentinel, lycanwing, monstrous nightmare, and speed stringer (from HTTYD & HTTYD:RTTE). Logan Fields (from School bus graveyard). Pidgey and the green and red lions from Voltron. Fictional/mythological canines such as blink pup, and hiiden hurtta-adjacent. MC spectator (Minecraft). Lucario, poochyena, and Houndoom + Houndoom/onyx cross (pokemon).

Deityfolk related; deity of death & medicine (generally medicine, medical areas, knowledge, and practices) and deity of crossroads and the lost. Eldritch deity. Hostiaen/hostiakind (sacrificial specifically). Oracle & immortal, death omen and harbringer.

Therian/animal types: African wild/painted dog, jackal, mutt/hound, manned wolf. Hyena, wolverine. Magpie, sparrowhawk. Eels.

Concept; violent death/surma, immortality, eternity & winter conceptkin.

Alterhuman; infected/plagued, apocalyptic scavenger, polymorph, merfolk (apocalyptic merfolk, carrion [feeder] merfolk, scavenger merfolk). Revenant, time traveler.

Transspecies specifics: undead, werewolf, African wild/painted dog, mutt, dogthing/boy, zombiez

—

Undead, unholy, ghostly, folkloric, celestial nonhuman & alteranthro and paraantrho. Anjesque but not angel.

Species specific: Morima, calamoer, drakemoian (specifically fear & melancholy drakemoians), eldrorian, aniluma, korathioner; chioner & vathmer specifically, but relation to koramer. Suianis. canithrope.

Animas; Eternity, eldritch & eldritch mer, immortal,

Eitments; eldritch, eternity, void,

Emsouls; eldritch, mutt, Lurkerian,

Emotionalink to crows & ravens.

///

Misceverse identity;

Misceverse for those who may take interest in coining;

Dynamics; dynamic fluid, but primarily Iota & anull (In my verse Iota is described to be beta aligned Omegas, and the individuals of this dynamic may also be called "iota omegas" without being a bidynamic since that's related to temperament and behavioral patterns, nitpick info lol.); Guardogdynic (guard dog),

Scents; scentfluid! bitter herb, peppermint, cherry, violent death, blood & smoke, wet dog, petrichor, lavender, ocean, corvidae, otherwordly corvidae, metal, gunpowder, death/rot, carrion, melancholy, (Primary scent is bitter herbs, cherry, and peppermint.)

Behavior: jumping spider, eldritch, merfolk. Otherwise den maker & denning iota,

[trash-sidhe]

Sticc figure go brrr

Henry stickmin character desgins for my own au ideas

Henry (chaos touched)

Charles (cat fae)

Ellie (vampire)

Dr vin

My sonas

Sabastian (dragon in figure shape)

Lost (undead opossum fae)

[toycoheartful]

Mephisto Malarial Mosquito (Mosquito de la malaria Mephisto) is a Malarial Mosquito LawPant - Who is having a bad mood and He wants some human bloods.

Name: Mephisto Malarial Mosquito

Species: Malarial Mosquito LawPant

Sexually: Demisexual/Bisexual

Sex: Male

Power: Mosquito Bite

Crush/Love Internet: Esther Crowned Hornbill

Friend: Rahman Orang-Minyak

Rival: Minnie Monarch-Butterfly

Theme Song: Another Way Out by Hollywood Undead

"Ha! I want your blood!"

Esther Crowned Hornbill (Cálao coronado de Esther) is a Monster Naga hybrid Crowned Hornbill LawPant - Who is a Mean of the Beauty and She looks like a monster too.

Name: Esther Crowned Hornbill

Species: Crowned Hornbill LawPant

Sexually: Demisexual/Bisexual

Sex: Female

Power: His back with a tentacles & His tongue with a eye to hypnosis

Crush/Love Interest: Mephisto Malarial Mosquito

Best Friend: Iben Virginia Opossum & Zella La Llorona

Friend: Mariana Dragoness

Rival: Hurricane Kirin

Theme Song: The Sky Will Turn by The Birthday Massacre

[writing-a-book-called-scales]

Alright. Okay. I can do this.

Leksi Stonepaw drew in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand as air turned to mana within his system. It was a simple spell, or as simple as this kind of magic can be. That's what the book said in its ancient and supposedly unknowable tongue.

He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling of magical energy running through his veins, pushing it towards his pale blue fingertips. Sickly green sparks started to form as his glowing electric violet eyes shot open.

With the gathered power, Leksi began to draw the sigil in the air with the green whisps of magic that left his hands. He cast the symbol forward, throwing it towards the corpse lying on the stone table before him.

"Yes!" He shouts in victory as the magic began to fade and his eyes returned to their usual royal purple hue. The dead creature began to shift and shake, bones rattling as decaying skin stretched across the carcass of an opossum that was doing more than playing dead until a moment ago. The dwarf's eyes shine as he reaches out a hand. The undead creature lifted its head to nuzzle him as he muttered something to it.

"I'm going to call you 'Living'."

[bulkheadbignaturals]

Hi uh I’m not dead yet (maybe in 2 weeks’ time…..) so take this doodle of one of my OCs acting cryptic as hell. Her name is Bones and she is the literal personification of death (but next to nobody knows about that). She may also be omniscient. This is just the form she takes when around other mortal entities, I’ll redraw her actual form in some time but to visualize it simply: BIG undead moss opossum with slimy see-through bits and exposed bones. She’s silly.