#if five pebbles didn’t want to have creatures crawling through his brain then maybe he shouldn’t have access shafts leading into his brain

[ladyofthebookcase]

five pebbles claiming to hate slugcats is so funny to me. brother that is a small and cute creature with zero ability to comprehend your existence. what did it ever do to you. that thang is just chilling.

[jimlingss]

Request for one of my favorite writers~ An apocalypse au with any member of your choice that you think would fit the best! Maybe the mc needs to make a choice to either save the person they love or an important person they hate (up to you really!). A story about the end of the world is always a great medium for angst haha

↳ The Crumbling World of You and I

1.9k words || 99% Angst, 1% Fluff || Apocalypse!AU || Park Jimin

Warning: Mention of suicide

It’s better to pretend that you’re dead. 

Even if you’re not, the game of imitation is the only means of survival. Try not to not be seen by others. Try not to breathe too loudly. Try to not eat too much. Try not to make too much noise. Sometimes you’d like to think that you’d be better off being actually dead. The contemplation of ending this misery is appealing on dark nights cowering in the shadows with your stomach gurgling from starvation. But your stubbornness won’t let you. You’ve made it this far — while there’s no end in sight, all your efforts and every sacrifice would be a waste if you took a bullet to your head. Not yet, at least. You can’t die just yet. You can’t die until you see him die. “There’s no food, but I found this.” He tosses you a box that you catch instinctively. It’s torn and muddy, but you find three bandages inside that your pocket with a hum. “We might starve again tonight.” Your boots are silent against the floor and you grasp your knife tightly as you round the corner, peeking over the counter. When you find nothing there, you release your held breath. “We could head to the forest. Kill a bird.” “They’ll see the smoke from the fire. It’s too risky to go back.” You turn on your heel. “So you think staying in the city is any better, Jimin? Who’s fucking fault is it anyways that they’re looking for us?! I told you that I didn’t trust them, but you didn’t listen.” “What’s done is done.” “We could’ve died.” “Well we didn’t,” he counters. “I’m sorry to say that. So what do you want to do?” There’s a drawn silence and your teeth grits. “There’s a preschool down the street I saw on our way here. There might be something there. If not, we can camp out there. It looked relatively untouched.” Jimin follows closely behind you. “Nothing’s untouched.” “Yeah, well it’s our fucking best bet, so shut your mouth.” The two of you leave through the backdoor of the pharmacy, quiet and slinking down behind fences and bushes. You’re not afraid of the dead as you are of the living. Those that pillage and steal, who serve their self-interest and would happily hold a gun to your skull and enjoy hearing your screams as they’d rip your limbs from your sockets and cook them for you to eat.  There’s a lot of sick fucks left in this world. Those that were sane have turned crazy. That includes you. After so many years of chaos and destruction, your thoughts have turned to dark places. Especially when you have to look at Jimin. And those places have taken permanent residences in your mind. You’re huddled down, about to run over to the next car to shield yourself from the light, but Jimin extends his arm. He holds you back. “What the hell do you think—” “Shush.” He puts a finger to his mouth. Jimin grabs a pebble by his foot and chucks it in the opposite direction. A zombie you didn’t see cranes his neck around and begins to lurch towards the noise. The boy nods to you, and you swallow hard, continuing. It’s not difficult to get down the block, and you take a moment to look at the graffiti on the walls, the last messages of people begging for help. Cars have been abandoned, windows broken, ivy and moss beginning to grow all over the walls. The city is decaying, but it’s not a new sight to you. The pink walls of the preschool have turned into a muddy shade, playground abandoned and filled with the ghost of children. You don’t dwell, easily prying open the barricaded door. The hallway is dark, but with the little light coming in, you’re able to notice the school pictures framed in a row on the wall. They’re of kids gathered together in front of the school before the war, three to five year olds with pink, cherub cheeks and mischievous smiles, grinning and unaware. They’re probably all dead. Jimin notices that you’re staring at the photographs and hesitates. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” you answer sharply, turning away. He nods. “I’ll check the staff room then.” You enter a classroom nearby, making sure to throw another pebble that you have in your pocket to the center of the room. When nothing comes crawling out, you take a sigh of relief. The windows are covered with planks, desks fallen over, papers sprawled all over the ground. Contrastingly, the white board has scribbles of flowers and happy faces. The drawings are sloppy to show the inexperience of holding markers.  You walk to the teacher’s desk as you slot your knife onto your belt, shifting to open the drawers. They’re empty, except for a small pair of scissors that you keep in your hands. But as you open the bottom drawer, you find a wooden frame. It’s another picture. This time of a woman and her child — a four year old that reminds you of someone. Someone with rounded eyes and lopsided lips, that held your hand with their small fingers. It’s been a year, but it still hurts like a bitch. You release a staggering exhale, feeling your eyes sting before you put the photo face down where it belongs and close the drawer as if noting happened. There’s the sound of footsteps that follow, but it doesn’t put you on alert. It’s familiar and constant. Jimin appears with a can in his hand. “It’s beans. Past the expiration, but still looks good.” It remains quiet and he reads the expression on your face. “What’s wrong?” “There’s a lot of fucking shit wrong.” You brush past him, but he grabs your wrist. “Well then tell me. We’re a team.” As if his touch burns, you shove his hands off of you. “Let me make this perfectly clear with you, we’re not a fucking team.” “Then what are we?” “I don’t fucking know. It doesn’t even fucking matter, alright? We just so happen to be together.” You step closer to him. “But believe me, the chance I get, I’ll leave you behind. Don’t think for a second that I have your back and that I’ll protect you, Jimin. You’re on your own.” “Is this because of your sister?” Your blood runs cold. “Don’t fucking talk about her.” “You know I didn’t mean to.” He moves to face you again. “I didn’t mean…” “I told you not to fucking talk about it! What don’t you understand?!” You grab the collar of his jacket, shaking him with your trembling fists. Jimin puts his hands over yours, searching your expression desperately and he whispers— “I’m sorry, Y/N.” “Well sorry doesn’t bring her back, does it?!” you scream until blood curdles at the back of your throat. You punch his chest hard with your fists, like beating a dead horse. “You let her die. You left my sister to die. A fucking four year old. I told you to watch her and you knew she couldn’t run with her fucked leg and you left her behind! You cold — hearted — bastard.”  You’re hyperventilating, jaw clenched, knuckles turned white. The fucked world didn’t harden you. It taught you how to savour your anger and sadness, and use it to find the will to live.  “You killed her.” There’s thumping. Growling. Broken feet sprinting. You let Jimin go, stumbling back. One of them comes through the door, maggots on its face, eyes bulging, thrashing at him. Jimin turns around and with his body weight, stabs his knife through its skull. But he’s unable to pull the dull blade back out. It’s stuck in the crevices and he’s shoved down as its arms try to maul his own face.  Jimin kicks it back. “Y/N!” You cup your ears, close your eyes, curl up in the corner. Please. If there’s a god out there — you pray for the first time in a long time — let him die. Jimin grabs a ruler on the ground, right in fingertips’ reach and he slams it at the zombie’s skull, hard enough that it’s stick through. The creature shrieks horrifically, and he takes the chance to tackle it down, getting a grip on the handle of his knife again. He pulls out and stabs once more, blood splattering all over his clothes like it’s just paint.  But another creature follows the noise and comes through the door — the size of a small child sprinting in bloodlust. Jimin’s still on the ground, vulnerable as he finishes off the other. And he’s brought the floor again by the child turned dead, his knife once again stuck in the other one’s brain.  He scrambles, tries to push it off as it crawls up his body. But the zombie’s nails have sunk itself into his jacket. “Y/N!” Jimin screams. And then it’s silent. The zombie stops shrieking. Blood sprays across his cheeks. His eyes are blinded, catching the sunlight that bleeds through the wooden planks of the window and reflects against the scissor’s blades. With both hands, you stab through the back of the child’s skull, again and again. It rolls off of him and you continue to spear the small scissors at its head. Ramming it until your arms are aching. Until the blade feels dull. Piercing until the bones and brain tissue feels like minced meat. “Where’s mom and dad?” — “I want to go home.” — “Y/N, I’m scared. I don’t want to die.” It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault.  She was only four years old. She only had you. She was your own family left. And yet, you left her behind — you dared to entrust her to a stranger. She thought you were going to save her and she waited. She waited for you to come back, but you didn’t.  You were the one to leave her behind. Jimin gets up, watching sobs break through your frame. You can hear the child’s shrieks, your sister’s, and you try to kill it. Try to get it to be quiet. Try to make it return to its grave. “Stop. Y/N.” You scream through gritted teeth, only shocked out of it when you feel arms wrap around your body. The bloodied scissors are taken from your grasp and you collapse next to the corpse. Jimin quickly embraces you, something he usually wouldn’t have the audacity to do, but he’s still a warm body that feels nice against your dirty skin. “Why can’t you just die?” The real question is why you can’t let Jimin die. “I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs. The two of you are bloody and disgusting, but you’ve gotten used to the iron scent. It’s comforting. It means that you killed it, and that you’ve lived. “I hate you,” you tell him, having never felt hatred so deep in your stomach before. “So much.” “I know,” he tries to comfort you and it’s a futile attempt. “When the time comes, I’ll let you kill me.” But despite his promise, you know you wouldn’t feel better even after his death. Maybe Jimin knows that too. No amount of retribution can make you feel better, can make it easier to sleep at night. You can’t let him die. You only have each other now.