#into a zombie story

[its-tea-time-darling]

it’s another day of shaking my fists at wes ball/whoever made the call to make the flare into zombie disease instead of what it is in the books

[yandere-writer-momo]

Yandere Head Canons:

Love After Death

Yandere Skeleton x Fem Reader

I’m obsessed with Kate Bush’s song ‘Army Dreamers.’ So I decided to write a story about a soldier who died during a war, but he came back to life just to fulfill his promise of coming home to his lover…

There was a Great War many years ago between monsters and humans. A war that took countless innocent lives all due to the human’s greed. A war that took the life of your lover, Zered. Your childhood sweetheart.

Zered was a young sorcerer from the magic tower. A prodigy and pioneer of magic with a heart of gold. He was the man you had planned to spend the rest of your life with. You wanted to run your fingers through those blonde curls until the two of you were balding and wrinkly. To look into those sea foam eyes until you couldn’t. To press soft kisses against his full lips until your lungs burned. You loved that man more than anything in this world… but the war took him from you.

Zered may have died a hero of the empire, but you couldn’t help the bitterness that seeped its fingers into your heart. Your beloved was no nothing more of a war story. A great sorcerer who was able to take down the dragon enemies to give time for reinforcements to arrive. A war hero. And they couldn’t even bring a single remain of him back to you…

You sighed as you sipped on some homemade ale. Your eyes glanced at the sun’s rays that danced across the hay fields in sorrow. This was the cottage the two of you were going to live in for the rest of your days. The one you’d start a family in that was now cold and empty. It didn’t matter that the sun hit it perfectly each time, Zered wasn’t here.

You rock back and forth in the rocking chair. The birds weren’t singing their melodic tunes like they normally did. Which was odd. Why weren’t the birds singing- you almost screamed when you see a dark figure slink through the meadow towards your cabin. What on earth was an undead doing here?!

You quickly sprang up from your chair and fell over since you were a bit tipsy. Crap. Crap. Crap! You needed to head inside before that creature got to you.

You let out a shrill shriek of terror when the skeleton stood in your porch. Its red eyes stared into your very soul as it tilted its head to the side. Oh god… this was it. This was the end. You were going to be ripped apart by this hideous creature-

You went still when the creature threw itself into your arms as it released weeping noises. The skeleton whined and shook as its arms wrapped around your body in a tight hug.

“H-home. I… home.” The skeleton’s voice was a spin chilling rasp. A small tuft of blonde on its head showed that it was once human.

What did it mean by being home- wait. This cousin possibly be?

“Zered?” You gasped when the skeleton pressed its teeth onto your cheek like it wanted for press a kiss against your cheeks. “Zered, what happened?”

“Home… home.” Zered was barely to rasp out legible words. The skeleton cupped your face in its palms. “Love you… I home.”

[the-joju-experience]

Having watched every version of the Doc Pig Murder Trial, I'm fascinated by BDubs' version. Every other cut was a Minecraft video, this is Minecraft as a medium. It's a TV show.

On top of all the production elements, there's the fact that BDubs is the only one who considers the ruling even. Everyone else presents it as a victory for Cleo, but BDubs' editing around it to craft a different story is an entirely different story.

BDubs also manages to make himself the main character by reshooting a lot of his jokes. He has a different sense of humor than everyone else involved, and it shows in what he leaves in and what he changes. A lot of the stuff I liked didn't make the cut, but it was a different project.

BDubs also reshot his ad, which is funny in an entirely different direction this time. I think I like this better on its own, but the original in-context. There's also the intro to Beef that he ran music under, and that line made so much more sense with sound, and I think it's cool that BDubs was recording with backing music in mind that no one else saw coming.

BDubs is a brilliant producer to the point where it's a problem. It's impossible to casually watch a BDubs video because you have to respect the craft.

[tootyfruities]

okay you guys. age-old question here:

reblog for larger sample?

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.5k / 20 / post-apocalypse au, part 1

...

You're injured but moving as fast as you can with your bow slung over your back. Soap is close behind you, giving chase, shouting your name as he does. Doesn't he learn? Doesn't he know you'll pull your bow on him again if he corners you?

He must know, but he's too stubborn to give up the chase. You don’t understand it.

He pushes on, just as graceful and twice as effective as you. You slip through the thick trees and their branches trailing whips of brambles. He shoves past them. You’re injured. He’s not. He's gaining, boots heavy in the soil.

"Watch yourself--!"

Your boot lands on leaf litter that falls out from under you--a pit trap. You’re moving barely fast enough for your momentum to save you from falling in. Your waist hits the edge of the pit. You brace yourself by your elbows, fingers digging into the dirt. The soft underside of your arms drag against something sharp underneath.

Soap grabs you by your coat and pulls you up out of the trap and to your feet before you can scramble out yourself. You're neither surprised nor mollified by his careful handling of you.

"Let me go!"

"Na. You're hurt. Stay still."

"Soap, I swear to God--"

"Shut up. I'm taking a look."

He holds your arm firmly with one large hand and, with the other, pulls your sleeve away from the bleeding gash. You grab his wrist with a pained curse. Whatever caught your arms—the rough wood and metal at the trap's edge—tore you bloody. Soap glares at the gash and then at you. He's close.

You could reach for your bow or for the dagger on your hip. But you know for a fact he's armed. With guns. A sniper rifle on his back and two sidearms at his belt. He knows how to use them, too. If you fight, he wins. But you know better than to back down quickly. The world is crueler than it used to be ever since things went to shit. People who show weakness don’t survive.

"Why are you following me?" you growl, your grip on his wrist tightening.

His grip on you loosens in turn when you speak. "You know why. I'm lookin' out for ya."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Aye, but you still needed it."

"You're not a soldier anymore, Soap," you retort, trying to pull your wrist away. "It's every person for themselves. Stop following me."

"That's no way to live. The world may be a shithole, but there are still folk around who'll lend you a hand even though they don't need to. Soldier or no'."

You can't get out of his grip when he's determined to keep you there, and he is. As much as you'd like to give him a matching wound for being so goddamn stubborn, the rational part of your brain--the part that makes sure you survive--knows better than to expend energy struggling when it's not strictly necessary.

"Nobody lends a hand unless they want something in return," you mutter, glaring down at your wound as he bandages it. "Even if they're pretending otherwise."

He knows you speak from experience. You're a woman, and that means you're nothing but a resource to the worst of whoever’s left. He can't blame you for being guarded. Then again, you wouldn't be making such heated statements to his face if you really thought he intended to hurt you. You're just... defensive. Hiding under all that anger. That's what he tells himself. So he ignores your grumbled protests.

"That's how you'd look at it," he finally replies as he finishes dressing the wound. "Seein' as you've not met the right people. But some of us don't expect anything back."

"You don't expect it because you think you're better than asking. But you still want it."

"Might be so." His voice is soft, gravelly, but you can hear the steel in it. "But am not asking, now am I? So stop your fussin'. You're safe. Nae need to worry." He releases your bandaged arm.

"You run your hand along the wrapping, checking it. "Fine. But I'm... I'm not coming back with you."

"Can't promise you'll be safe out there. Where do ye plan to go?"

"I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Aye." He rubs his jaw, examining you with flint in his blue eyes. Pressing you for an answer would be pointless. Not that you seem to be lying—but you're not telling the whole truth. The short history you share with him is just enough that he can tell. But he also knows trying to change your mind would be pointless. If you won't listen, he'd have better luck bashing his head against one of these huge, mutated oaks.

"Am nae stoppin' ya. But these woods are full of treacherous paths. If ye run into trouble—when ye run into trouble--my boys and I, we know these woods well enough to dust you off and send you in the right direction. Cannae promise to find you before somethin’ else does, though."

You're fairly sure he's not lying. His boys, as he calls them—his old squad, you think—they've made their home in these woods. It's perilous living—bears, wolves, muties, and terrain just as hazardous as the wildlife. And still those men are the most dangerous things in here.

The offer is tempting. You consider it for longer than you should, looking down at your bandaged arm again. But then you step back, shaking your head slowly. "No, thanks. I have to get going."

It tears him up inside. You're making the wrong choice. If he lets you walk away, he's letting you walk to your death.

He looks at you for a moment. You can tell he's got something more to say. But he changes his mind, stepping back as well. He pulls something from his belt and holds it out. A handgun, scuffed and black, grip held toward you. You stare at it for a second before looking back up at him. He's serious?

"I'm not gonna take that--"

"You're damn well gonna take it." His voice is low and insistent. "You think I don't know you'll run into trouble out here? Don't be a fool. I have spare. Take it."

Your one rule is don't owe anybody anything. How the fuck are you about to owe this man twice?

Fine. Whatever. It's not like you have to use it. Could just barter it. Not like you’re going to see him again. You take the gun, biting back a retort.

He nods his approval. The steely look in his eyes softens, though he still looks dismayed. "Mind where you point that. And when you pull it. Biters'll hear it for a mile and come running. Survivors, too. The curious ones." He glances at your bandaged arm one more time. Then he adjusts the bag over his shoulder and turns his back, walking away from you. Back to camp. "Am expectin' you to keep yourself alive with that," he growls. "Or else it's a lot of good time and material I wasted on ya."

"I didn't ask you to waste your breath," you retort, practically snarling at his retreating back in your irritation. You watch him go until he's disappeared into the trees. You need to make sure he doesn't plan on doubling back and following you.

Then you set off on your own. You take a winding path to throw off any trackers. Never can be too cautious. The gun in your pocket is heavy against your thigh, and you try not to think of it as a comforting security.

You came here to get Roach back, and you don’t care how long you have to wander this Godforsaken forest. You’re not leaving without him.

…

Soap feels your eyes on him until you disappear.

He wants to divorce himself from this, but he’s on edge. People who strike out on their own here come to a nasty end. But he’s not going to take away your agency by deciding what's best for you. You were right about him not being a soldier, after all. He doesn’t have the authority to herd you back to his squad’s campsite. Your life is in your own hands.

He just hopes you live to do better than he believes you will.

That night, he sleeps restlessly. Which is why, when he hears a cluster of gunshots in the distance, he wakes up instantly. It's you. In trouble.

The night watch—Gaz tonight—is already there, tossing Soap's gun to him. "You were right," Gaz says.

"Course I was," Soap says with a lopsided grin. "Owe me a ten-piece in the next poker game, aye?"

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more Soap / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

[upsidedownsmore]

thinking about how people in present day warframe percieve the infestation versus people in warframe 1999

like in present day the infestation has been around for who knows how long, though of course it's gotten worse of late due to the actions of dr. tengus

however, for the people of 1999 this is probably the first time anyone has ever encountered this threat, and even to us it looks even crazier than usual cause it's interfacing with all this old 90s tech. like there's the existential horror of a space zombie virus that has been festering around for centuries, but then there's the true horror of having your entire society uppended by techrot out of nowhere. techrot with a boyband as its face of all things. and of course the fear of getting caught in the scaldra's crossfire

i hope we get to meet some regular citizens in 1999 just to further explore their reactions to all of this, really drive home this new perspective on the infestation we've otherwise become very accustomed to

[too-lit-for-fanfic]

I'm sorry but Grian's last stand!!! hello??!?!? My man took on a 3v1 and was fucking WINNING. He lowered all 3 of them by so much! He alone in that fight dropped Scott from 35 to 12 hearts and Gem from 49 down to 5 (+10 for killing Grian) (I've not seen Impulse's ep yet).

But like?? yes King pop OFF

He even fought until his shield BROKE, fighting till the very last minute!!

Say what you want about this man and his easy flightiness with alliances when they begin to break apart, but this man had a mission and he fucking delivered on it and we stan a committed man

He managed to hold his own against a very good PVP player and he fucking owned it

The tragedy of it? He knew he wasn't going to win. Of course he wouldn't against the best PVP player in the server, a previous winner, and Impulse who consistently performs well in these games. He was surrounded, taking and blocking hits from all directions, throwing himself into the fray when he could have just walked away and waited for a better moment. But no, taking and giving swing after swing, fighting until the very wood of his shield splinters and breaks. He wasn't expecting to win, he could never win with how low his hearts were, but he knew he could bring them part of the way down with him. He just knew Gem and the Scots couldn't be left with their abundance of hearts, and my man sacrificed himself to make sure other players had a fighting chance.

Without him, Gem probably would have won with her stacked hearts

I hope the community milks the ever-loving shit out of this moment

[amonisweird]

I saw a post like this on Instagram but it was with Gorillaz and I thought about this😂

[zombiekombi-if]

Zombie Kombi

An interactive story by @josru

DEMO TBA | CHARACTERS

The cities are barren.

Not a soul has been seen navigating North America's metropolitan landscapes in years.

The undead are considered soulless, anyways.

In the late 2040s, zombies have overtaken the greater part of North America. You live on the outskirts of San Francisco, in an old, beat-up, secondhand Volkswagen Minibus. Also known as a Kombi (not sponsored).

You've been alone for as long as you can remember. Your elderly parent is long gone, and you have yet to meet another person, let alone one you're sure can be your ally.

Play as male, female or NB/GNC.

Choose your hunting level. Pick between amateur, alright, and advanced.

Romance one of four potential options (or keep them as friends, adversaries, or enemies, depending on your choices)

Choose your path:

Discover what happened to the world, causing it to be filled with the undead, by traversing to the city.

Find out about the first owner of your Kombi. (#??? videos found so far.)

Navigate conspiracies about a local settlement that seems too friendly.

Howard "How" Ngam

A mid-thirties, quiet, skeptical Thai-American man, How Ngam hates everyone and everything that's happened to him. He's the previous (read: not the first) owner of the Kombi- imagine his surprise when he stumbles upon you, living in a place he was sure he left locked and empty, meant to be his personal solitude.

He isn't the easiest to talk to, but his bristly attitude has it's purpose in this world. He's discovered a lot about the city, and How could take you there, but he's protective of those he cares about, which might include you.

Appearance: Tan-olive skin, deep-set eyes with wrinkles and dark circles, wide nose, prominent lips, shaggy, ear-length black hair, brown eyes, and stubble/mustache going on. About 5'8", fairly lean, some muscle. He's usually wearing a hand-me down, dark green jacket, and a copper-toned beanie. Heavy worker boots. Non-descript pants and shirt.

Dylan Chase

A late twenties, Half-Irish woman, Dylan is always searching for a greater purpose. She's scared, but determined to find herself in the midst of the apocalypse. You could worry that she's read too many self-help books, but she knows herself. Even if she can be a bit harsh about it.

Dylan wants more than anything to be caring, to prove to others that she's not a bad person. She lives in a well furnished settlement, where lack of resources seems to never be an issue. The guilt of being there, when everyone else is suffering, eats at her, but you could soothe her feelings, if you wish.

Appearance: Pale, warm toned, freckly-orange skin, hooked nose, sharply defined, thinner lips, deep red long hair past her shoulders, (basically think of a tomato), green wide eyes. About 5'6", very skinny, long runner legs with muscular calves. Despite the cold of San Francisco, Dylan runs hot and wears jean shorts, cropped shirts, or athleisure like hoodies and leggings.

Gloor

He's a zombie. Gloor's skin is a pallid green-blue, with splotches of beige that reminds you he was human at one point. There are chunks of skin and flesh missing from his body, but he persists on, in the way the undead always do.

He can barely hold a fully fledged sentence with you, but you can tell he doesn't mean any harm. There's something lifelike in his eyes as he stares with you, a strong purpose held in his pupils, untouched by the typical fog that zombies carry. It's even more obvious in the way he seems to still have fine motor skills: he's capable of writing a few letters for you, if you want him to.

Appearance: Green-blue skin, brownish-grey hair that's mostly all fallen out, brown eyes. No nose, lips receding. 6'2", surprisingly wide in the middle due to his ribcage. He's wearing an old, dilapidated suit, and a wrinkly dress shirt, and torn up pants.

Alia Jacobs

Named after Saint Alia of the Knife, Alia is a mid-thirties, black woman that absolutely adores pop culture and trivia. She's a massive, optimistic nerd, and maybe one that's a bit obsolete in this current time- nobody really cares to get into escapist fantasies the way she does. Either way, she's got a cabin filled with comics, old video games, and DVDs. You wonder where and how she's collected so much paraphernalia, and mainly why-  and she's willing to share that with you if you don't judge her.

Appearance: Deep cool toned skin, natural loose afro to about the end of her neck, brown eyes, slight smile lines, prominent lips, straight nose. 5'3", pear shaped, hourglass body. She wears billowy, silky tops, and well structured cargo pants. She wears a lot of jewelry like rings, bangles, and earrings.

[fizzytoo]

[inkedberries]

here is part 3!! can you guess where wolfwood and milly took vash hahah

part 1 | part 2

[floralcavern]

Animes with the funniest dubs

EDIT:

I would also now like to add

[iconsrequestsworld]

fav or reblog if you save.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1k / 39 / post-apocalypse au, part 3

...

By the time Soap eases himself off of Roach’s back and Ghost hauls him into what must be the infirmary cabin, you turn around to find the camp’s gates shut tight and fortified in preparation for nightfall. One way in, one way out, as with any smart semi-permanent settlement. You’re locked into the squad’s camp. Not on purpose, Price tells you. But you swear there’s amusement behind his eyes.

No good deed goes unpunished.

It’s more of an encampment than a settlement, with log buildings and structures everywhere. Looks like something they fixed up into someplace livable. Nicer than most hovels you’ve seen since society crunched under the boot heel of chemical warfare. You’re tempted to root around the place, get a better look around inside, too, but going inside somewhere enclosed makes you feel itchy now. You sit outside at the campfire instead, leaning back against the massive, furry flank of your snoozing dog.

Price looks at you over the fireside, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. His blue eyes seem to be analyzing you.

Roach sleeps next to you, one of his front paws flopped over your leg. It must be nice to be able to go to sleep that fast, no worrying about what the morning could bring.

You don't look at Price for a long time. But the more you concentrate on looking away, the more irritated you get. You pull at the grass. Finally, you glance back. He doesn’t politely avert his eyes. That irritates you even more.

"What?" you snap at him.

Price shrugs, not at all bothered. "Just checking you out." He takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back, and eyes you. "Smoke?"

"Where the hell are you getting cigarettes? You live in the middle of the woods."

He chuckles. "Trade with some of the settlements a way away. Cigarettes always make good bartering chips."

"Not if you smoke 'em all up."

"Gotta indulge where I can." He blows a stream of smoke away from you. "Here."

He's right, too. He hands you a cigarette.

A few minutes later, you're enjoying it, letting the nicotine soak in after a long day. That's still one favor you owe Soap and now one to Price.

"Your dog got a name?" Price asks as he lights his own next cigarette."

"Roach."

"What's his deal? Mutie hound?"

"He was my dog before he went all..." You square your hands. "Big. So he listens to me."

Price eyes the beast. "Sure he does. Must be conveneint, being able to tell him to sit there and keep your feet warm, huh?"

You take another drag, leaning forward a bit more toward the fire. "Sure is. Slobber everywhere, though. And the farts he rips..."

"Worse than the mutagen?"

"Exactly. Chemical warfare."

He chuckles. "Soap mentioned you once or twice. Never a dog, though."

"I thought I lost him to the forest." You glance at Price sideways. "What did Soap say?"

"Eh. He says too much."

"Right."

"Just said you're scrappy for a civvy. Pretty scrappy, period." He takes in another drag. "Seemed fond of it."

You scoff. Civvy. Is that what you are? But you don't pick a fight about it. The cigarette is good. You feel like you could lay down in front of this fire and sleep. Maybe you will.

Price doesn't say anything more. The silence is comfortable. You take in the atmosphere. It's peaceful, really: the fire warm and bright, the forest sounds and the smell of smoke mixing pleasantly with the cloud of nicotine in your lungs.

Price takes another drag. "Soap's a good lad, even if he can't quite stop shooting his mouth off."

"How many of those you got?"

"Cigarettes?"

"Mhm."

"How many you tryna borrow?"

"Another one."

"You'll get hooked if you're not careful."

"Indulging where I can, aren't I?"

"You are at that." Price hands you another with a smirk. "And a handful. You know, that dog of yours is a lot of muscle. We could use that."

"You're not the first one to think that, old man. He only listens to me, so don't get any nasty ideas about offing me and stealing him."

Price smirks. Sounds like you have experience dealing with other survivors. "Wouldn’t be a bad trade-off," he says, shifting into a lazier position as he stares into the fire. "Might anyways. Can't imagine keeping a dog that size just for a foot warmer. That beast's gotta be put to use. Turn him into a war hound or something." He takes another drag. "Can't imagine Soap'd be happy about you gettin' killed, though. Or the other lads, for that matter."

You smirk. You can tell he's got a dry sense of humor. You do, too. "Can't kill civvies, can you?"

"You're hardly a civvy," Price mutters under his breath. "Civvies're tame."

"Shame. Guess you're not getting my dog."

"Pity." Price taps his cigarette ash into the dirt. "Got a lot of cigarettes and nobody to smoke 'em."

"Thought you bartered them."

"Just getting a head start in case the trading starts to slow down. Keeps the supply low." Price takes in another drag. "But suit yourself. Best to leave before you get hooked."

He flicks the cigarette into the fire and walks away. You watch the flames and feel the warm lure of sleep pull you closer. It's like another favor for a favor, isn't it? Roach's aid and yours in exchange for a full night of rest and another day of cigarettes and food. Maybe two days. Just enough to recharge and get enough sleep. Enough for Roach to recover.

You curl into Roach's side, closing your eyes. Just another day or two. That's all. Then you'll vanish.

Roach nudges you as you nestle into his fur. You're exhausted, but you're also safe and more or less relaxed for the first time in days--weeks--and your mind finally starts to slow down.

The fire crackles gently in front of you. Roach snores quietly, content to keep you company through the long, quiet, dark night.

For the first time in a long time, you feel warm and safe. It's not much. But it's enough.

You let your eyes close and finally succumb to sleep.

...

part 1 / part 2 / [part 3]

more Price / more Soap / masterlist

[shortcakelils]

@mintythecup @whosectype

‘twas inspired by this screenshot

[weirdlookindog]

Howard Nostrand (1929-1984) - Original cover art for Graphic Story Magazine #16, 1974