jadam oneshots :')

The Zombie Apocalypse: ft. circletoons & zalinki (by lychee)

yo yo yoooo whats poppingggg homiesss home dogssss home,,, people um yes hello

this glorious fic was written by my dear friend lychee and it's flip flopping fantastic. read it, love it and tell lychee how cool they are. 

also maybe keep in mind this is intended to be a light-hearted joke and its chAPTER 69!!11111!!1! THATS THE FUNNY NUMBER YOU GUYS!! 

okay thank you. you may now proceed. 

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The sky is grey.

"Well, looks like it's the zombie apocalypse," Adam mumbles mournfully, looking down at the degraded bowl of grey mush in his lap. He lets out a sigh at its inconvenient timing — why does it have to be during the two-month period of having his jaw wired shut? What a fucking nightmare.

He can't even swallow the damned preservatives in the stacked wood cabinets stocked full of canned banana at this point in time.

SomeBODY once told me —

Adam glances over his bedside, eyeballing the cellphone insistently blasting Smash Mouth's "All Star" like the diabolical bitch-faced devil Christian is. Half tossing the rubbery porridge-like sludge to the other desk, he reaches over to pick up the phone. "What?" he hisses into the speaker, though it comes out jumbled with the horrible lingers of metal braces.

"It's the zombie apocalypse," Christian hisses back loudly, like he isn't the one who called with full volume in the first place. There's the vague groaning noise in the backdrop of the other man's fuzzy voice, like the door hinges are collapsing in on themselves, or maybe like a squirrel versed in the human vernacular just fell on top of a white van.

(Adam isn't sure the difference, and quite frankly, doesn't really care.)

"Astute observation. Of course it's the zombie apocalypse," Adam states instead (or tries to), because clearly, the grey skies are all the indication of an outbreak for human brains. "What's your point?"

There's a pause on the other end of the line, before Chris lets out a strangled cough. "Isn't that of concern to you, or do you have a death wish?"

Scraaaaape.

Nails against glass. Again, a horrible fucking sound, though not as bad as the pain stuffed in his tongue.

"Probably," he agrees nonchalantly, in true Gen-Z fashion.

Aaaaand there goes the door. Adam scrambles out of the bed, flings himself beneath its wooden frame, and searches for a knife because even if he's got a death wish, becoming the rotting feces of a rotting corpse is not high on his list of Ways To Die.

... Why does he have a knife under his bed?

"Brains," a hoarse, ragged voice croaks in the confines of his carpeted room, sounding like utensils diving into bouts of streaked jello heaped in the parking lot; like splitting pottery, spilling confines of poisonous gas that condenses into icy shards against flesh. Halfheartedly, Adam thinks to himself that this is quality voice acting, and something he should absolutely get on speaker for the views, until he remembers that it's actually not voice acting.

(All the more reason to get it on record.)

Breathe in, breathe out.

"Not this time, motherfucker," Adam mutters under his breath, before springing out the front side and wildly swinging the short blade in his hand, crashing against something that feels somewhat like plunging one's hand into a sewer.