#i’m actually going to sob my comfort read is ending 🥹 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chiyokoemilia · 25 days ago

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best freaking fic ever, i’m getting tissues ready for this ending 😭🥹

Take Me Home Tonight

♡ ♡ Pairings ♡ ♡ Law Professor Satoru Gojo x Student Fem Reader

♡ ♡ Warnings ♡ ♡ MDNI- Gojo is like 29 here, reader is like 22 or 23. Nothing too crazy. But is Professor/teacher forbidden type love. In this chap- oral sex (fem recieving) semi public sex, public play, a lap dance for the reader, basically them being cute and freaky lol

♡ ♡ Word Count ♡ ♡ this chap- 9.6k

♡ ♡ Summary ♡ ♡ After passing your LSATs, your friends take you out to unwind. You never go out, so you are awkwardly agree, and you end up in the arms of a super hot man named Satoru. You end up screaming Satoru's name as he drops down on his knees before you, only to lose him in the club. All you have is his first name. Two months later, in your Criminal Law class, your heart stops. Your teacher? Professor Gojo. Or as you soon call him, Professor Dickhead. You can't fuck up your law school, and he won't fuck up his career, not just because he makes you wet in class, no, he's a dick. Right? That pout and blue eyes don't wreck you, right? - Lawyer AU

Chapter 12 ♡ ♡ Masterlist ♡ ♡ Playlist

Chapter 13

Satoru’s parents do not open the door, no it’s a snobbish looking butler, who looks at you with disdain, then looks at Gojo and rolls his eyes. Gojo snorts, pulling you against his side and shoving past him, walking into the insanely decadent manor. If you thought Gojo’s place was fancy, this was ridiculous, paintings worth more than your life everywhere, and sleek white marble everywhere.

Chandeliers hang above your head, you look up in awe, and Satoru is chuckling as he walks you through. “Pretentious as fuck, aren’t they?”

You giggle a bit, looking at your handsome fiancé , grinning at you with those pretty straight teeth of his, lowering his blue shades with a wink. “Indeed they are. You grew up here?”

“Nah, mostly boarding schools. Thank God.” You hold onto him then, realizing there was still so much more to learn about your soon to be husband, you open your mouth but soon his parents walk in. His snobby mom and snobby father look so prim and proper as they walk to you all, Gojo waves. “Hey, parental units.”

“Is that what you call us now?” His mom asks, and you shiver as she comes near you, assessing you up and down, as if searching for a flaw. You remember what she said, what she did, it makes you sick.

“Well could call you a fucking bitch if you want.”

“Satoru!” His dad hisses out.

Satoru rolls his eyes, then they narrow on his father, as Satoru lets you go, cracking his knuckles, and you tense, surely he wouldn’t-

“Since I don’t hit women, you get two for threatening my fiancé.” Satoru Gojo punches his dad then, right in the stomach, and his father gets furious, going to swing on his own son, for Satoru to duck, scowling and punching him in the face. Satoru’s mom is flipping her shit, screaming out.

“Satoru stop it!” She demands, as you watch on in shock and awe, mouth wide open as Satoru glares at his mom.

“Well I can’t hit you, mom, so he needed to take your hit. That second one is for slapping her pretty face.” He says, through gritted teeth, as the butler has ran up an ice pack for Satoru’s father.

“You’re such a little shit, you always have been.” His dad says then, only for Satoru to grin, shaking out a hand that already has blood on the knuckles, throwing his head back as he laughs.

“I guess I really am. So, let me properly introduce you to my fiancé.” He says your name, pulling you to him and kissing your hand, as Satoru’s dad sits in one of the fancy seats of the dining hall, where they clearly had prepared some sort of meal for you all. “Show em the ring, shnookums.”

“Oh… um, it’s beautiful.” You say softly, as his mom snatches your hand, looking at it, then at Satoru. “We’re getting married tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!? Satoru stop this, we already called the college, you have your job, and she has her position at the school-”

“We’re getting married regardless. Sorry, no invite for ya. Ooh, looks yummy!” Satoru starts popping the fancy macaroons and tarts in his mouth, moaning, as his mom assesses you. You hand her the envelope with the money then, she blinked in surprise. “Oh yeah, can’t buy her off. Plus that wasn’t shit for money, cheap asses.”

“Well we figured since she’s so poor-”

“I was poor. I am not anymore.” You correct, and his mom sighs, tossing back her silvery hair and gesturing for you to sit.

“We are… sorry that we…” His father can’t even finish his sentence, instead slamming back a whiskey. “Ow.”

Satoru snorts. “Can’t even finish your bullshit, huh father? Oooh yum.” Satoru now is stuffing cream puffs in his mouth, and yanks you onto his lap, causing his parents to scowl, affronted as you sit on a long leg. Satoru shoves a cream puff in your mouth, and you bite into the sweetness, moaning. “Fuck you’re hot.”

“Satoru, really?” His dad demands, and he just grins, licking whipped cream off his thumb, as you marvel at how fucking strong he is, how he gives just no fucks, your crazy Toru.

“Anyway, we’re getting married, and she will own part of the company with me, fuck I won’t do a pre nup even, because I know she’ll run you all into the ground even if she leaves me.” He chuckles deviously, sipping on some juice and pouring you a glass.

“I’ll never leave you, silly man.” You say softly, and Satoru exhales, kissing you right in front of his parents, earning his mother smacking the table.

“Enough of this! How much do you all need to not marry? A hundred thousand, two hundred thousand?”

You smile then, looking right at her. “No amount of money could make me not marry your son.”

“Thatta girl.” He pinches your hip with a charming smirk, and somehow even his parents’ cold manor is comfy, when Satoru has you. Satoru is your home .

You’re so lucky.

“A million?” His father asked, and you giggle now.

“No amount in the world. Despite you all being some of the worst parents I have ever seen, and that’s saying a lot from a foster kid, I absolutely adore the man he’s become, no thanks to you.”

“You insolent little bitch.” His father says, and Satoru grins psychotically, as he studies his dad and his swelling face.

“I’ll add two more hits for that.”

“You will not! Stop it.” Satoru’s mom scowls at her husband, and he grumbles, holding his glass out for another drink. “Let’s be rational. I fixed the situation, the one you both caused with recklessness!”

“The one you caused, putting money in pockets. You always have had a silver spoon in your mouth, but that’s going to change soon.” Satoru says, and his mom narrows her eyes.

“What do you mean?”

Satoru grins “It means that when we marry, we’re going to own fifty one percent of this shit show, and guess what? You can’t buy me, you can’t bully me, and you can’t lie to me anymore. If you dare come near her again, I will make sure your reputation is ruined and I will have you fired from your own company. I have enough dirt on you both to do just that."

The silence in the room is deafening, and you look at Satoru curiously, sensing he has more up his sleeve, it’s as if he’s in full lawyer mode, and fuck if that isn’t always the most attractive thing. His hand is gripping your waist tightly, the other grabbing his cell phone, as he shoots you a little wink, and you’re wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing his cheek, to his parents dismay.

Satoru's mother's hand flutters to her chest, her eyes wide with shock, while his father's hand trembles as he holds onto his drink, trying to keep a firm grip. The air is thick with tension, and you can almost taste it on your tongue, you can sense their fear of their own son, who has become so strong away from them. What must it have been to have lived with them you shudder to think of it.

"What... what are you talking about?" His father finally stammers, playing dumb, but you know better. You've seen the way they've treated Satoru, heard the whispers, felt the coldness in their eyes every time they look at you, for them to suddenly put on some innocent air is hilarious.

Satoru's smile turns into a full-blown grin, a wicked glint in his eye. "Oh, come on, dad. You didn't think I'd just let you get away with this, did you? Either of you, oh and you’re both such whores and so easy to trail." He pulls out his phone, swipes through some messages, and holds it up for them to see.

“What on earth!” Satoru’s mom gasps as she looks at the image, and Satoru chuckles, showing you his father with what appears to be a… lady of the night?... your eyes bug out nearly, as his dad sputters.

“Well, that’s not me!”

“It sure looks like you!” His mom shoves at his father, and Satoru is wickedly smirking, wiggling his thin white brows, as you marvel silently.

"You see, I've been keeping tabs on your little... indiscretions. And I've got enough evidence to ruin your ‘Gojo’ reputation, oh and your marriage. But Mother , you’re also so slutty!"

“What, I never!” She glares, but Satoru’s shoulders are shaking with laughter as he pulls up another photo, and you flush as you see it’s his mother and a pool boy, before he shows them, and Satoru’s father stands angrily. “That’s not me!”

“That’s Antonio, the pool boy, and you , my god!” His dad shouts, and his mom stands then, slapping his dad in the same cheek Gojo punched.

“You’re cheating too!”

“You’re both horrible, but that pool boy seemed so nice when I spoke to him. He’s down to say all sorts of interesting things, as is your hooker, Father. So…”

“Satoru, please stop this! We’ll leave you alone.” His mom says then, sullenly, and you watch Lawyer Gojo just smash another case as he taps your thigh and you stand, holding his hand, which he kisses with a wink.

“We will… not bother her again.” His father grumbles, as you see them seething, wanting to kill each other, clearly.

“Yeah, keep Naoya the fuck away too, he’s a goddamn murderer, what is wrong with you two? Their money that good?”

His mother's face pales, and she opens her mouth to protest, but no words come out. You squeeze his hand, your heart racing. “Naoya is sentenced tomorrow, so likely he will be in prison for life.” His mom says, and Satoru looks down at you, as you smile up at him.

“Killed that case.” You whisper, and he purrs, kissing you, as his parents watch quietly.

"Now, I suggest we sit down and have a civilized conversation about this. Unless you'd rather I start making some calls and sharing your scandalous behavior? God what will the church say you two sinners!" He says, his dramatic, a hand to his chest, and you barely hold in your snort of laughter.

The room is a flurry of movement as they both scramble to sit back down, desperation etched on their faces. The power dynamics have shifted, and you can't help but feel like you're watching some damn snake charmer in action, like Satoru can control the vipers his parents are, and he’s pretty damn happy, you feel it radiating everywhere.

"Alright, let's talk," his mother says, her voice shaking slightly. "What do you want?"

Satoru leans back in his chair, pulling you back down to his lap, their lips terse as they watch you both, but they say nothing as you nuzzle him, so madly fucking in love with this man who gives no fucks. This man who will do anything for you, and you can’t believe just how lucky you are. Satoru Gojo has investigated his own parents to keep you safe, to be with you.

Satoru speaks now, as you brush back his silky hair, as you study this amazing man you’re to marry. "I want you to leave us alone. I want you to accept that we're getting married, and we're going to run this company together. And if you so much as breathe a word of disrespect towards my fiancé again, I'll make sure you never see the light of day in the corporate world, and are dirt fucking poor, ruined."

There is a quiet moment as they look at each other, then they sigh, literally at the same time. You watch Gojo preen like a peacock, so proud, and you’re proud of him too. "Fine," his father says, his voice gruff. "But we expect you to behave like the Gojos you are. No scandals, no drama."

"No worries, there. We're just going to live our lives, make some babies, and run our own law firm." He touches your tummy, and you can’t stop the heat from radiating from his touch, from his little wink as his blue eyes look at you under those shades.

A baby.

It sounds more and more like something you want the more he teases you, perhaps not yet, for you have to finish law school, but you see babies in your future, you see a few babies. Maybe a little boy with white hair like his dad, mischievous and smart, and a sweet little girl like you, a feisty smart cookie.

That idea makes you ache, do you have baby fever now!? Damn Satoru Gojo makes it hard not to. You try to focus. "Law firm?" His mother echoes, looking at you with renewed interest.

You nod, feeling a surge of courage. "Yeah, we're going to help people who can't help themselves. Make the world a better place, one case at a time, aren’t we Toru?" You ask him with a big grin, and he nods at you, grinning right back.

“Sure the fuck will. Gonna have little lawyer kids, family firm.”

“If they want to!” You say, and he kisses your neck, hands firm on your waist as he shamelessly nuzzles you.

“If they want to, we won’t push our kids to do what they don’t want.” He glare behind his shades is right back on his parents. Satoru's parents exchange a look that you can't quite read, but you suspect it's a mix of shock and disbelief. "So, we're clear, yeah? You'll stay out of our personal lives, and we'll run the company like the adults we are, fairly."

“We think we can do that. Could we at least plan a big wedding, you’re the heir of the Gojo family-”

“No, and you’re not invited. But, you can send her a generous gift.” Satoru says, as his mom’s face falls, you’d almost feel bad if you didn’t know how horrible of a woman she was, pretty as she was on the outside.

His father sighs. “Fine, we’ll send a gift.” He says.

"And one more thing.” Satoru says. "If you ever, and I mean ever, try to bribe, blackmail, or otherwise manipulate my fiance again, I will take you down."

“We got that, Jesus Satoru. You’re clearly infatuated.” His mom grumbles, sipping on a mimosa now, as you feel their defeat, and it makes you way too happy.

"We're going to be happy, you know. Me and your son.” You speak up finally, and they both look at you curiously. “I will be a good wife to him, and a good mother to any children we have, I will never abandon him, I will be by his side, whether I fit your ideal for a wife or not. Our happiness is not something you can control or take away."

Satoru's mom looks at you, her eyes narrowed, but you see a flicker of something in them, something that might just be a hint of respect. Or maybe it's fear of Satoru, but either way, you feel Satoru’s warmth under you, and see the emotion on his face, which he quickly controls. You know he can’t let others see him, especially his vulture parents.

“I think we have an understanding?” They nod. “Good deal, knew you two were smart… somewhat.”

They roll their eyes, but you smile.

“We have a lot to do, it’s a bachelor party tonight you know. Bachelor and bachelorette? I don’t know, we have a strip club to go to, oh and so much fucking to do, you know. Gonna make babies.” He chuckles as he stands, and picks you up bridal style, to his parents’ horrified looks. “Nice seeing you all again.”

Satoru walks you right out then, in his arms, through the extravagant halls of the Gojo mansion, and you’re wrapping your arms around his neck, kissing his cheek over and over. Soon he has you in the back of the car, as his driver Ijichi smiles at you both, looking tired.

“How did it go, Mr. Gojo?” He asks, and Satoru grins, tapping his shoulder and tipping him hundreds. “Oh, that well?”

“So well. That’s to ignore her moans, she’s so loud.” Ijichi blushes as much as you do, as you’re dragged into the back of the limo, and he’s pulling you on his lap, grinning so pretty at you.

“Satoru Gojo, you’re amazing. Beyond amazing.”

"You were incredible," he whispers in your ear, his breath hot against your skin while he kisses it, firm lips pressing on delicate skin, and your hands shake as they cling to his shoulders. "So strong, so brave."

“Me brave, you! Fuck you did an investigation!” He chuckles, as his big hands grip your hips over your pretty blue dress he bought you this morning.

“I’m Satoru Gojo baby, what did you expect? Fuck them.”

“Do you ever think they’ll change?” You whisper, stroking his cheek, and he shakes his head.

“They’ve always been that way. I don’t have any hope they’ll change, my only hope is now they know they can’t touch you.” You blink back emotions, as tears threaten to spill, Satoru sighs as a couple escape. “God you’re pretty crying.”

“God you’re pretty all the time.” He smirks.

“That’s you baby girl.”

“We’re both pretty.” You murmur, leaning forward, as now you feel his excitement pressing between your thighs, and you heat up, tension pooling in your lower tummy, as you feel his breaths against your ear.

“I love you, baby girl. I need you, now, please.” He pleads so sexy, sliding your panties to the side and slipping two fingers in, making you moan, your head falling back for his hot kisses. “You’re so wet for me, baby.”

“Need you, need you too.” You whisper back, and he loses it, hurriedly unsnapping his belt with a click, and you’re unzipping him, revealing his hard cock straining against his boxers, which you shove down, almost falling. He catches you with a nervous laugh, as he takes the sight of you in.

“You’re so fucking cute.” He says softly, then he’s sliding his length, stretching you out so much, so full, you gasp, wincing at that stretch, and he’s exhaling, his breath cool against your breasts, hands sliding to your hips. “Oh my god so tight.”

“You’re so thick… fuck…” You whimper, and he eats it up, with his hungry kisses, allowing you to adjust before he moves, and you’re riding Satoru Gojo’s cock in the back of a limo, soaking his length as you roll your hips, watching his pretty face contort in pleasure. His hands grab you everywhere, taking over your entire body, leaning back in his seat, watching you.

“God, you’re pretty.” He says softly, yanking your dress down, your breasts bouncing out for his hungry eyes. “Fuck.”

“Fuck!” You cry out a moment later, as he’s kissing around an areola, sucking it into his hot, wet mouth as you’re bouncing up and down, his hands on your ass, those swirling blue eyes looking up at you.

“Mmm, that’s it.” He whispers, little strings of saliva dripping from his lips as he sucks on your other nipple, hands gripping your ass as it shakes from your thrusts, as you hear your skin smacking his. “Ride me so fuckin good, pretty girl, don’t you?’

“Toru!” You’re a mess, thigh muscles struggling as you sit down on his cock so deep, his tip leaking and grinding on your cervix. “Can’t move.”

“You’re weak, little brat.” He teases, but you whine, nodding, as he starts moving you, lifting you up and down his length with ease, pistoning his hips so his cock is wrecking your pussy now. You feel him so deep, fucking in your stomach, deeper, as you feel yourself closer and closer. “That’s it, baby girl, cum for me.”

How can you not cum for Satoru Gojo, as his thick length is stretching you, as his eyes are locked on yours, as he’s urging you on. You fall apart, pussy throbbing around him, and he hisses at how good it feels, as you’re gushing wetness down his pants, all down to those fancy leather seats of the limo. You hear your squishing, how wet you are as he pounds up into you.

His brows are drawn together, his pale cheeks flushed with pink, his pouty lips parted as he gasps, and holds you up, leaning further back into the seat, as he pumps your pussy full, as you look down and see your slickness pooling around the white hair on his pelvis. You brace yourself on his hard chest, feeling his heart thudding against your palm, as you lean forward, and he captures your lips.

You drink in his moans, as he sips up your cries, and you’re holding yourself up as much as you can so he can fuck into you harder, your lips breaking apart, eyes rolling back as he’s kissing up your jaw. Satoru’s moaning in your ear is far too sexy, that husky deep sound as he slows, rolling his hips and pulling your hair.

“Miss Brat, your pussy is far too good, I’m gonna sue you for… misuse of… kegals.” You giggle breathless, as he slows more, and you ease down on him, trying to move, all sweaty despite the cool air in the limo, looking right into his bright eyes, lidded with desire.

“I only do kegals as - fuck! Toru…” He’s pushing you down, his hand sliding between you to roll a circle on your clit with his thumb, and you’re falling apart all over him again, crying out as you cum harder.

He smirks, biting his lower lip between those sharp teeth, raising a brow as he watches as your orgasm hits you. “Can’t even… mmm… finish an argument, huh Miss Brat? Under… pressure…”

“F-fuck! Okay… I use kegals for you and to make you cum fast- ah!” Satoru is scowling as he smacks your ass, and you’re giggling breathlessly, but it dies when he’s got you laid out on the long limo seat, laying on top of you, as you’re a trembling mess under him.

“Objection.” He huffs, and you can’t laugh, he’s shoved his cock to the hilt, dragging the tip on your g spot, overstimulating you as his heavy balls are smacking against your ass.

“Objection to what!? Fuck, Toru, there, there!”

“No. Sustained.” You laugh again, and earn a scowl. “You can laugh, huh, not fucking you hard enough, baby.”

“I-what- ah!” Now Satoru is fucking you so hard it’s brutal, mean cock bullying into your entrance over and over, as his long fingers wrap your throat, squeezing and making everything fuzzy. “You’re rusty, Professor, sustained- ah- doesn’t… fuck, doesn’t apply!”

“Fucking brat, swear to-” He’s slamming harder, raising your thigh up to where your feet are on his shoulder, then you can’t take it, you’re a writhing mess, as he’s whining out softly, kissing up your ankles, even the tops of your feet as he pounds you, such a contradiction.

Your pussy is struggling to accommodate him, as he’s slamming that cervix at a bruising pace, unrelenting. You’re losing oxygen as he squeezes your throat tighter, as he takes over everything you are, igniting that insane heat in your core that is about to spill over. Your tits bounce with every thrust, and he moans as he watches.

“Play with em, law student. Now.” He orders gruffly, releasing your throat and bracing himself on the seat, and you eagerly oblige, grabbing them and squeezing, earning his moan, and his cock twitching inside of you. “You’re so sexy, oh my god, yes baby, pinch those nipples.”

You cry out as he’s rolling his hips inside you, as you’re a slick mess, your cunt sucking his thick length in over and over, head falling back into the seat as you pinch your nipples for him. Satoru’s leaning lower now, kissing your throat, biting it so hard it hurts, but fuck it feels good, you take your hands off your breasts to cling to his muscled back over his suit jacket, pressing into the expensive material.

“Toru, Toru, baby!” You whine out, as he licks a trail up your throat, cupping your face with one hand now, tilting your chin up.

“Look at me, pretty.” You push yourself to focus, as he’s gone blurry with all your pleasure, and he exhales, kissing you deeply, you taste his sweetness, his essence, maddening as his cock finally slows. “I love you.”

“I love you so much Toru.” You whisper back, kissing him desperately as his weight is on you, and he’s grabbing your hips, your dress hopelessly scrunched up around your torso. “Cum in me, please, please.”

“Need me to fill you so bad, slutty brat?” He asks, and you just nod, brow furrowing as he’s caressing your face so lovingly, breath tickling your lips. “Beg for it, pretty girl. Let me know how bad you need it.”

“Oh please, Toru. Please, cum in me. Put your babies in me.” You say hoarsely, eyes locking on his, and you watch him fall apart, and feel his thrusts go hard, so hard he’s fucking you deep into those seats, jerking your entire body.

“Gonna fill you so full, so full, put so many kids in you. You want em, don’t you pretty girl?” You nod at his soft, pleading words, then Satoru makes that little sound you love so much, that whine from the back of his throat, as he pumps you full, and he cums so much, more than usual. You’re shaking as you take it, as he’s crying out, gripping you and kissing you over and over.

You’re both gasping for breath as he eases finally, studying your face and brushing your hair back gently, thumb stroking your cheek. “Toru, I love you. I can’t wait to marry you.” You whisper, tears falling from the overwhelming sensations of cumming, of his love, of his touch, of him .

Satoru’s own eyes go glassy, as he gulps, kissing you softly. “And I love you, Miss Brat. I can’t wait to marry you.”

You both struggle to come to as you kiss over and over, as he’s gently adjusting your dress, as he’s stroking your body, as you cling to him, sitting up now, and he’s rubbing your back. You fall into him, loving him so deeply it’s physically painful, not imagining a life before Satoru Gojo, before your home. He notices you sobbing and peers back, concerned.

“Baby girl, was that too much?”

“No, it was perfect. Oh Toru I just…”

“What is it Shnookums?” You giggle through your tears, making him smile as he holds you, as you touch his face, as he brushes your tears.

“I fall deeper every day. It’s so hard to handle, my heart just aches, as I love you more and more.” He kisses you fervently, then, pulling you so close, like you two couldn’t get close enough, and he has you back in his lap, but sitting to the side, cradling you, looking at you deeply.

“Making me a fucking baby.” He grumbles, making you laugh finally through your tears. “I fall deeper every moment, even when I watch you sleep, like a little snoring angel.”

“Hey!”

You’re both laughing then, and you sigh. “I couldn’t be happier. Fuck I never imagined this.”

“Neither did I. Y’know we got anything together. Yeah?” You grin, nodding.

“Yeah we do. Toru, are we really going to a strip club?”

“Sure are, I wanna see you get a lap dance. Plus dragging serious ass Nanami will be so fucking awkward. Oh, that Yuta kid too. It’s gonna be good.” Satoru’s grinning deviously, and you roll your eyes at him. “C��mon, you’ll love it. I won’t really look at any of them, I have you.”

“Oh I don’t care if you watch a girl dance, silly. But… it does sound kind of fun, I’ve never been. I can’t believe we’ll be married tomorrow!?”

“I know, it’s crazy. We could wait, if you’re scared, chicken.”

“Am not, jerk!” You stick your tongue out and you both laugh as you head home to get ready, you’re not even sure what to expect.

The neon lights of the strip club are glowing different colors, casting a sultry glow over the elaborate decorations that adorned the walls. This was clearly some fancy club, the servers were topless wearing little plaid mini skirts, and the bars had gorgeous bartenders, smiling and ready to get you all whatever you want.

“Gojo! You’re getting married!” The owner comes up to Gojo, shaking his hand enthusiastically, then smiles down at you, you instantly recognize him.

“Sukuna!?” He laughs, coming to give you a kiss on the hand and winking at you. “No wonder we drove so far for this club!”

“It’s the best, I’ll have you know. Fuck I can’t believe you’re getting married, you better not have a divorce, I’ll snatch her up.” He says with his grin on his tanned, handsome face, and Satoru scoffs, rolling his eyes and putting an arm around you.

“Not happening, you know it. She gets fucked too good.” You’re blushing under the lights as Sukuna’s dark brows raise.

“Oh, a challenge?”

“Not a challenge, Toru, don't just say that!” You hiss, but he’s smirking. “Did his hoe ass frequent this place?”

“How dare you assume that!” Satoru scowls, and Sukuna chuckles.

“Nah, not really, but he’d come every now and then to just throw money on the stage, the girls loved him. Don’t think he ever got a dance. Ya gonna get one on your last night?”

“Nah.”

“You can!” You say, and Sukuna sighs.

“She’s perfect, I’m really fucking jealous.”

“Of course she is. But no, I wanna get her a good dance later.” He whispers, as if you can’t hear, and Sukuna hums, rubbing his chin.

“That sounds hot. I can do that, but can I watch.”

“Fuck no.”

“Tch, you’re no fun Gojo.” He glares at him, as Gojo glares back, and you wonder if these two idiots will fight again, but Suguru and Nanami are there, along with Maki and an embarrassed Yuta, who hands you a drink.

“Thank you!” You smile at him, leaning close. “Are you nervous?”

“Never been to one!” He says, his tired eyes looking even more tired, you wonder if Maki’s even letting him sleep, she’s all horned up lately she says. You giggle at the thoughts, earning Yuta’s pout.

“Is she letting you sleep?”

“No, she’s a fiend. Fuck don’t tell her that!”

“Tell me what?” Makin grins as she steps close, leaning forward, that emerald hair falling over her bare shoulder. Yuta blushes, and you can’t stop your smile.

“Yuta was saying he wants to fuck you more , Maki. Like he needs more and more-”

“I’m dying!” He screams out, and you’re laughing as Maki attacks him with her kisses again. Nanami and Suguru step up to the dancers, Nanami looks so awkward it’s adorable, where Suguru seems perfectly comfortable you notice.

Satoru’s arms wrap around you now, and you peek up at him. “So baby girl, you’re getting a lap dance lesson.”

“Am I now?”

“Mmhmm, the only dance I want is from you.” You melt at him then, peering up at his cerulean depths, twinkling with mischief, as you cup his face, thumb running across his stubborn chin. He nuzzles your hand so sweetly.

“You’re perfect.”

“I know.”

“Hey!” He’s chuckling, and you love feeling his chest shake as he does, god you love everything about him. You keep falling deeper into the abyss that is your white haired, lawyer fiance. “Let’s have fun with them first!”

“Oh fine, brat. I guess we should. But…” He leans forward, whispering into the shell of your ear, as his hands grab your ass, pulling you against his hard, lithe body, and you’re reminded of that night at the club, where you met. “I wanna fucking lick you in a bathroom again.”

“You’re so pervy, no!” He’s chuckling, and you heat up at the thought, he can tell when your lashes lower, when you bite your lip.

“You’re so slutty for me, you want to.”

“Uh-uh!”

“Uh-huh. C’mon, let’s go party baby girl, last night before you’re officially my wifey.”

“I can’t wait to be Mrs. Gojo.”

“Mrs. Gojo, fuck that’s hot.” He’s kissing you right there, as strippers, clients, servers all walk by, many awwing and oohing at you two lovers. “C’mon, let's corrupt the rest of that innocent nature.”

Soon you are up towards the stage, where beautiful dancers are swirling around poles, doing splits, so flexible you’re enamored, all in glittery outfits covering basically nothing. Satoru is shoving Nanami up and beckoning the women over to him, making the tall, buff professor Nanami a blushing mess. Maki is with you as you all tip the dancers and Yuta is looking at anything else.

“Yuta come tip them, you chicken?” Maki teases, sticking her tongue out, and he is groaning as he slinks up.

“Don’t be mean, Maki. Yuta only wants to look at you.” You say with a wink, and then Maki looks at him, for Yuta to nod, brushing his black hair back.

“Aww fuck, that’s cute. C’mere.” She’s smacking kisses on him again, and you imagine Yuta isn’t going to get that sleep, as Geto saunters up to you, scooching a seat right next to you.

“Last night of freedom, you wanna spend it with me, love?” Geto teases, and you snort in laughter, shaking your head and smacking at him playfully.

“Oh you’re so full of it!” You snort, sipping your cosmopolitan as you all watch one of the performers. “Holy fuck, how do they bend that way?”

“I’d throw my back out.” You both laugh again, and you put a hand on Geto’s thigh then, making him wiggle his brows. “Are you reconsidering the offer?”

“Shut it! I just wanted to say how much I appreciate you all, especially coming tomorrow for us.” He sighs, slinging an arm around your shoulders and popping a kiss on your cheek.

“Of course, Satoru is my family, now you will be.” You get emotional in the middle of a damn strip club, smiling tremulously at him then, and he taps your nose playfully, smiling. “Don’t you cry at your bachelorette party.”

“It’s my party, I’ll cry if I want to.”

“Oooh, you have the best song lyrics, Shnookums.” Satoru says then, pulling his seat next to you and slinging an arm around you, crossing his ankle over his knee. You lean over and kiss him, giggling.

“I love the eighties. Remember that song that played out in the first dance?” He grins.

“Of course I do. Take Me Home Tonight.” You melt then, giggling, as Suguru watches you two with a smile.

“You all are sickeningly cute.” He says then, and Satoru is brushing your hair back gently, as you look up at him with glittery eyes.

“You really remembered?” You whisper, making Satoru sigh, cupping your face now, and it’s like there’s nothing else in that room, like that night, it overwhelms you especially when his firm lips press on yours.

“Of course I remember, Miss Brat. It was Eighties hour or some shit, but how wouldn’t I remember that song? Miss ‘I can’t dance’! Whatever. Excuse for me to ‘teach you’.”

“Was not!”

“Mmhmm, sure. Sugu, are you trying to give her a wild night or what?” You gasp then, scowling at Satoru’s grin, then looking at Suguru who is tipping a stripper, smirking back at you both.

“Sure I’m down. We're just gonna share again?” Your mouth is dropped open again, eyes darting back and forth.

“Already has her mouth open, what a good girl.” Satoru says, hand on your thigh, sliding up, you smack at him then.

“You stop fucking with me, both of you! You would never share.” You’re glaring at Satoru, and he snorts then, leaning far too close.

“No, I wouldn’t, but you thought about it, slutty brat.” He whispers, earning your shove at his hard chest.

“You’re so full of shit, Toru. You two are the worst! Maybe you both should get married instead.” You stand, crossing your arms, for them to both drag you back down to your seat, and you huff.

“I love to tease you, it’s too fun. Suguru, you notice her thighs shifting?” You about smack your fiancé, but Suguru stands then, laughing as he holds up an empty drink.

“You do have those legs, how do I not notice?” Suguru teases, chocolate eyes squinting and crinkling at the corners as he laughs.

“You stop encouraging him!”

“I’ll go get a drink, you can use me as bedroom talk, I don’t mind.” You throw an empty cup at his back then, only for him to laugh, bending down and picking it up, bonking Satoru in the head, who’s laughing so hard he has tears in his pretty blue eyes.

“Fuck you both!” Suguru’s shoulders shake as he goes up to the bar, flirting with the pretty bartender, whispering something in her ear. “He’s a hoe.”

“He really is.”

“So are you!”

“Reformed, brat. Remember? All reformed, now you really gonna say you wouldn’t do it?” He teases, brushing your hair back and whispering in your ear, as the alcohol warms your tummy and the club music is pounding like your pulse thrumming under your skin, as you realize how turned on you are in the atmosphere. “Can feel that heat from here.”

“From the… environment… that’s my alibi.” You whisper, and he chuckles, nipping your earlobe with his teeth, slipping that hand higher under your little skirt, thumb so close to where you’re wet it’s ridiculous. “Satoru…”

“Fuck.” He whispers then, as his thumb feels the damp spot forming in your panties. “You are so slutty, Miss Brat, want two professors?”

“Maybe… maybe kiss you both.” You tease, and he laughs softly, biting your neck as you nervously close your thighs.

“Just kiss, nothing else huh?” You giggle breathlessly, as you feel your body overheating everywhere, leaning close and kissing him, his free hand turning you so he can rub your folds over your panties unnoticed. You struggle to hold in your cry, as he watches you intently. “Not us both drinking you, huh Niagara?”

“Fuck off, Satoru!” You hiss quietly, but you whimper as the spot grows, until you’re sticky and soaked.

“Mmm, I’m using this as evidence for my case.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head and leaning back, hips bucking up involuntarily, making him grin like mad.

“What case, Professor?”

“The case you wanna fuck all the professors.”

“Only the white haired one, thank you.” You kiss him softly, arms wrapping around his neck, as his fingers press that material between your lips, pulling at it and pressing on your clit. It twitches in response, as you try to keep your sounds in, as he’s so shamelessly touching you in secret at the club.

“The white haired one? The prettiest one?” He whispers.

“The prettiest one there ever was. The prettiest Princess Satoru.” You tease with a grin, but it’s cut off when he slips under the side of your panties and finds you naked, moaning softly, his lips just barely against yours, hovering. “Ya like that, being my Princess Toru?”

“You’re the Princess, Brat, I’m just a little frog.”

“Handsome prince frog.” He slips his finger away, sucking on it then and shutting his eyes, and you damn near jump him in a room filled with strippers, patrons, people all in various stages of undress, and Satoru’s eyes are on you .

“Fuck you taste so good, always. How am I gonna make it through a dance I’m hard as fuck.”

He winces, adjusting himself into his waistband, and you’re blushing as you watch your effects on him, how his thick length shows even in his dark blue jeans. “Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck. Brat.”

“Me, you did it!”

“Fuck I want you now, I can’t handle it, bet she’s so wet I could drink her.” You whine out loud, earning his lidded gaze, as he’s got his hand entangled in your hair, kissing you over and over, tongue swirling in your mouth. “Let’s do this dance now before I can’t stand not fucking you. I’ll be right back.”

You kiss him over and over, and then peer to see Maki dragging Yuta into a room for a dance, you give her a thumbs up and she blows you a kiss, then you see that Suguru is… well, he’s making out with that bartender in the corner. You roll your eyes, realizing he’d have to take over Satoru’s sluttiness now, and then he shoots you a wink, earning your laugh.

You walk up to Nanami, who is looking a little less uncomfortable, but is not approaching the stage, instead studying his glass. You sit next to him and he smiles softly at you. “Mr. Nanami, you should get a dance. I’m getting one.”

“Are you now?” He asks, sipping his whiskey as he crosses his legs, clad in a fancy three piece suit. “This isn’t my atmosphere. I’m a little more conservative I suppose.”

“Mr. Nanami, you give freak energy.” He sputters and you’re shaking with laughter. “It’s a good thing!”

“Oh dear God. I am not sure what that means.” You sigh, patting his shoulder, stiff from him being so tense.

“I see all the ladies checking you out, you know.”

“Yes well…”

Satoru comes up with two women, and he gestures to Nanami, who’s blushing on his strong cheekbones. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“You’re getting a dance, now be a gentleman and let the lady work.” Satoru says with a wink, as a pretty blond drags Nanami away, who finishes his drink quickly, letting her yank him by his cheetah tie.

“Good call, Satoru.” You say, and he grins at you, as he introduces you to the pretty brunette in front of you, dressed in a G string and a tiny little silver bikini top, and nothing else, making you a little nervous of where to look. “Hello!”

“Hello beautiful, she is so pretty, you’re right!” She says to Satoru, and he grins, his hand on your waist.

“Oh you’re so sweet.” You say shyly, as the lady takes your hand gently in hers. “Are we…”

“You’re getting a dance, bachelorette. And of course your fiancé is going to watch. Are you comfortable with me touching you?” She asks then, as you’re now led into a huge VIP room, with burgundy and red plush seats, it’s super dark in there aside from red LEDS lighting up from the ceiling.

“Um, touching me?” You look at her in confusion, and then at Gojo, who’s helping you sit on the plush seat, sitting right next to you.

“With girls I tend to be a little touchy if they like. But only if you’re okay with it.” She says softly, and she makes you feel comfortable, clearly a professional, and you look to Gojo again.

“It’s fine with me, baby girl, it’s up to you.” He says, as she now spreads your thighs, slipping your skirt up, and you gasp at just that, Satoru’s eyes are hungry as he watches you. “I just want to watch you.”

“Just watch huh?” You say, but he nods.

“I love seeing a devoted fiancé, it’s so rare.” She says, and you melt as you realize that really is what Satoru is. He’s had eyes for you all night, like you’re the most beautiful girl in the room, in a sea of naked women, he’s all about you. It makes you melt more and more for him.

“He is, but so am I.” You say then, holding his hand, and he brings it to his lips, brushing a kiss on your knuckles and winking.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m gonna enjoy a girl on you. I’m still a hoe.” You snort, and the dancer laughs, as she bends low now, kissing your thighs, making you tense, as you’re clinging to the arms of the chair, and she bends down, her eyes looking at you, hands sliding up and down your thighs. “Jesus I won’t make it.”

“It’s your idea!” He sighs, swiping a hand on his face as he turns, staring intently at you as the dancer turns, bending over and rocking her hips between your thighs, taking your hands and putting them on her hips. “Can I do that!?”

She laughs softly. “Yes, you can. Relax, sweetie, it’ll be fun. Maybe you can learn some moves for your fiancé?” You bite your lip nervously, looking back at Satoru as your hands grip her firm waist, toned from dancing, and then she’s turned again, straddling you, her long legs on either side of you. “My prettiest client ever.”

“Oh stop!” You’re a mess, blushing everywhere if that’s possible, as the music from the club thrums quietly in the room, and you feel the heat and the energy taking over, her body sliding against yours, as Satoru is sipping his drink and his eyes are sliding down your body. “You’re pretty too.”

“Thank you, you’re so sweet. Most girls are not so nice.” You frown then a bit, and she shakes her head. Gojo smirks a bit, knowing you’re so fucking sweet you feel bad anyone was mean to her. Fuck he loves you. “Ah-ah you have fun! Here.” She leans forward now.

She’s running her hands down the sides of your breasts, before taking down your straps, revealing your breasts, and you watch them bounce out, as Gojo audibly groans. “I’m gonna die. I really am gonna die.” He grumbles, and you both laugh.

But he really feels like he can’t take it, his cock is straining in his boxers, he was already so hard just feeling your heat, and now he’s looking at your beautiful body, the girl above you is of course pretty but fuck you’re everything, your perfect tits at attention, begging for his mouth. You’re a cute little nervous mess, but clearly you’re enjoying, your eyes are lit up, you’re biting your lower lip.

The dancer licks one of your nipples, and you squeak, and Gojo would chuckle at how cute it was, but he wants to rail your perfect pussy right now. He’s clinging to his chair, shifting to try to adjust himself but it’s too hard, so hard it’s painful. She licks your other nipple and your eyes flutter shut, a little hum of pleasure from the back of your throat, your hands brushing her hair back softly.

“Fuck you’re so hot.” He whispers, earning your eyes opening, and looking at him, they’re so dilated they’re almost black, your lips glossy as you wet them.

“You are, such a pretty body.” She says to you, and you’re blushing even harder, as she slides back to her knees, her long thick platform heels clicking on the floor, and he watches her lick you over your panties. You let out what sounds like a squeak, and the stripper licks her lips and grins. “And yummy.”

“Oh my god.” Your head falls back, your hair cascading like a waterfall along the back of the chair, your hands over your face.

That’s it, he can’t stand it. Satoru can’t take it, seeing a girl fucking lick you, he’s about to cum in his pants like a teenager. “Holy shit.” He grumbles, and the stripper looks at him then, and gestures for him to come over to you, putting him on his knees with a satisfied look.

“I’ll let you two continue, yeah?” Satoru digs in his pants for a wad of hundreds, handing them to her. “Oh, you already paid-”

“Extra, you’re amazing.” He gruffly says, as he stares up at you, and the dancer brushes your cheek, giving it a kiss, watching you with a smile.

“It was my pleasure. You two have fun, love birds, twenty minutes left in here you know.” She saunters out, the door shutting with a click, and he watches your bare breasts heave up and down as you whine softly, and he yanks you by your hips, leaning up as you lean down. Your lips capture his, and he tastes your sweetness mixed with your drinks.

“Mmnh, Toru I think I like strip clubs?” You whisper, and he laughs, smiling so big his cheeks hurt, as he slides up under your skirt, pulling your soaked panties down your shaky thighs.

“I had a feeling you’d enjoy that. You’re so sexy, god.” He’s got your glistening pussy in his face, and you’re arching your back, hips bucking up as his breath hits your clit, as he parts your lips and his mouth salivates at how fucking gorgeous you are. He slides a thumb, feeling your dripping wetness, sticking to his fingers, making you cry out now louder.

“Need you, Toru, please.” You breathe out the words, and he licks his lips as he pulls your hips up, pressing your pussy in his face, inhaling you as he buries himself in your soppy entrance with his tongue, nose bumping your clit as you gush down his mouth. “Toru, fuck, fuck… fuck!”

“Mmm, shh, Miss Brat.” He whispers, watching your tiny clit twitch as he spreads you so wide, a thigh over his shoulder, your calf dangling across his back, his cock so hard he starts stroking himself for just some relief. “Want to cum on my face?”

“Please, please Toru.” You’re begging, little tears in those pretty eyes that glimmer under the red lights. You’re pulling at his hair so hard as you grind your pussy against him, and he’s close to cumming from it, from how hard you pull, from how good you taste, from watching your brows scrunch together in pleasure. “There, there, oh my god please .”

You’re dripping down his tongue, and he’s sipping you up, hands both now gripping the plush of your thighs, as he devours you, as you’re cumming all over him, and he moans as he drinks it up. You’re weak now, but he’s not done, he lifts the hood of your clit now, swirling the tip of his tongue on that clit, and now you’re trying to pull him off you.

You’re so cute, his wife.

His Wife.

You’re like a dream, as he drinks you in a club just like the first night you met, and he is dying to fuck into you, but he wants to make you cum over and over with his mouth, make you a mess, just like that night.

“Satoru, too much, fuck!” You’re trembling as you’re yanking at his silky white hair, but Satoru is unrelenting as he’s devouring you with that tongue, and now he’s sliding a finger in your entrance, looking up at you, face glistening with how much you’ve cum. You gasp as he hits your spot, as he works you until you feel so much pressure you can’t take it.

“Cum again for me, yeah? You’re so pretty when you do.” Satoru’s husky voice along with him licking your clit again, and looking at you with those blue eyes ruins you, and your orgasm hits again, shoving a hand against your mouth as you scream into it, blacking out in the red room as it’s so good. “Mmm, good girl.”

You’re listless from your back to back orgasms, nearly fainting when he relents, kissing your thighs and nipping them, you weakly reach down to kiss him. “Toru, too much… can’t move.”

“I got you baby girl.” He picks you up then, with ease in his arms, as he smiles down at your face. “You tapping out?”

“No, I wanna make you cum.” You whisper weakly, kissing him back, hands entwining behind his neck, brushing against his undercut. “Let me suck you.”

“Wanna suck me off, don’t you wanna fuck?” He presses you against the wall now, holding your thighs in his hands, and he’s kissing down your neck, as your breasts press against his hard chest.

“Both yes, please.”

“You’re a mess baby.”

“Your fault, fuck.” He’s moaning then, as he rubs his tip along your lips, between them, bumping you overstimulated clit and making your head slam into the wall as you cum again from that. “Too much, fuck, fuck…”

“She’s so sensitive hmm?”

“Put it in me, please.” You look up at him pleadingly, and Satoru groans, shoving his cock in to the hilt, and you both moan together as he fills you, as he’s resting his forehead against yours, hands now gripping your ass. “S’big, Toru, s’good.”

“You’re so tight, made for me, aren’t you baby?” You nod eagerly, as he begins slowly moving, and you’re both kissing messy, saliva dripping from your tongues, as he fills you so goddamn good. But it’s beyond the pleasure, it’s so much more, like he’s constantly filling that missing piece. “You’re perfect, perfect.”

“I love you so much, so much.” You’re both whispering your love, as he’s fucking you on a strip club wall, but it’s as if it couldn’t be more romantic, as you both devour each other, him bending low to kiss your breasts, sucking your nipples, rolling his hips. You’re clenching around him, thighs on his slender hips, rocking your own hips against him for more.

Satoru begins fucking harder now, and your tits are shaking with each thrust, his blue eyes drink you in, as one hand leaves your hip to cup your face, stroking the apple of your cheek. You’re crying softly, at how beautiful it is, how good it feels, while Satoru kisses your tears away, breathing softly into your lips.

“I love you, pretty girl.” He says, and you’re a mess, truly, clinging to him as you drink in his cries, as you feel yourself higher and higher. “So pretty, so so pretty. Aren’t you?”

“Th-thank you, you… so handsome I… cumming!”

“Cum then, baby, lemme feel you. Ah!” He’s tense when you convulse, dripping down the length of his cock, wetter and wetter as you pulse around him, and Satoru finds his release then with you, moaning his pleasure into your lips as he pumps you full, with short bursts of so much cum. “Oh my god, baby…”

“Toru… oh my god… yes, yes, push it in me.” You beg, earning his groan as he’s kissing your lips so possessively, and you both cling to each other.

“You took it all, you're such a good girl, aren’t you?” You nod between kisses, and finally he eases you down carefully, your head falls back as you look up at him, and he’s got you barred against the wall.

“That was insane. Fiancé.” You tease with a giggle, and he smirks so goddamn charming, tilting your chin up, brushing little kisses on your nose.

“You were so hot like that. I’ll have that in my brain, a stripper licking you, I almost had a coronary.”

You’re tucking your head against his chest, inhaling his cologne then. “It was so fun, my god I can’t believe we’re doing this can you?”

“I wanted to marry you when I first saw you, but that would have sounded crazy. But I knew then you were special, something about your energy.”

“Oh, Satoru, I knew something was special too.” You’re hugging him so tightly, Satoru is stroking your hair, as the song changes. You both laugh then, grinning at each other as you pull away, taking several breaths, and he’s helping you get back dressed quickly. “Is that…”

“It sure fucking is. C’mon brat, let’s dance.” You eagerly follow him out, where your friends are gathered together taking shots, they wave you over but Satoru has you in the center of the club now in his arms. He turns you to where your back is against his hard body, his hands on your hips.

“I’m not so good at dancing, could you show me?” You ask him teasingly, and he’s bending down, fingers pressing into your hips.

“I can show you, just loosen up. There, now move your hips.” You wriggle your hips to the silly eighties song you all had first danced too, you look behind and up at him, cupping his face as he kisses on your neck. “Look, you’re a natural.”

“I had a good teacher. Or, professor.” You’re both kissing then, as he picks you up, and your legs dangle off the floor, and Satoru is spinning you. You’re at a strip club but you might as well be at a ball, in some fancy mansion, dancing a waltz, the way he holds you, the way he makes you feel.

He eases you down now, hands on your waist as he hums the tune, now bopping his head and being goofy, your friends are all enamored watching you both, even the dancers have paused, in fact everyone is looking at you. As you both sing the song quite terribly, as he’s spinning you around in little pirouettes, dipping you over his arm like you’re in a tango.

You’re breathless and giddy as you now rock gently with him, brushing his hair back, seeing a beautiful future between you both just over the horizon. Seeing everything in his beautiful blue eyes, that swirl and dance and glitter brighter than anything there was, the way his grin is so bright it illuminates his pretty face. You see everything with him.

“I can’t wait, Toru.” You say with a grin marveling his own. He exhales, leaning down and holding you close, big body taking your little one over, making you feel so safe and so secure.

“I can’t wait, either, to make you my wife.”

Taglist: @jjknanamin @chiyokoemilia @marie-is-in-the-dark @seeing-stars-alt @maskedpacific @aldebrana @toffeebrat @antisocialinlw @trishiepo0 @jkslaugh97 @makingtimemine

#we’re getttttttttttting married 🤍🕊️🥂👰‍♀️🤵💍#i’m actually going to sob my comfort read is ending 🥹#i won’t be satisfied until my fav lawyer couple has like 10 lawyer babies #im so emotional right now

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kingofbodyrolls · 5 months ago

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WOAW 😭 I don’t think I’ve ever received such a long and detailed review with thoughts and feelings in it before— and it’s making me shake, sob and scream in happiness 😭💜

THANK YOU!

Thank you so much for taking the time to write all the down for me, for letting me know how much you loved all the realistic things I decided to put in, because yes, this stuff does happen in real life (bodily fluids, going to the toilet, period and that, like that would happen regardless of an apocalypse or not!). I know the story isn’t for everyone, and for some, given the situation in certain parts of the world, it might even be triggering (it would be triggering for me to read, but actually— after having written it, I feel so much better and more prepared? At least I’m not having straight up panic attacks whenever I think about the subject, so in that sense it really helped to write all my fears down).

I agree— I find a lot more dark themed stories with Yoongi than the others, I don’t know why. Maybe he just suits that vibe/theme?

I makes me so happy that you paid attention to all these details, and that you appreciate them so much 🥹 It really, truly, means a lot to me 💖 THANK YOU! I also got very excited about reader staining his sheets with period blood, and not because it was sexual, because it really wasn’t, but it felt real, and damn, I’ve had that happen to me and it was the worst experience 🥲 You’re not weird! And if someone tells you you are, I’m weird with you!

I just kept thinking what would I need, and what would I be missing in this situation? Normalcy. And for reader, she really finds that in Yoongi, he grounds her, he’s her rock 🥹 And yeah— maybe it’s just me, but if the world was ending, I’d seek comfort and reassurance in the one that I love 😭 They are in fact fucking away their feelings— trying to ground themselves in something ‘normal’ in an uncertain world. Reader was indeed so lucky to meet Yoongi, and the both really needed each other 🥹

I tried hard to make it as realistic as possible, as one can be with writing about something that hasn’t or might not happen.

Oh god YES— she ended up loving it at his place, and seeing it destroyed? 😭 You are so right, and I love how observant you are and all the stuff you picked up 💜 No, you’re not getting too immersed! 😭 I FREAKING LOVE IT, because this is exactly what I wished for people; to get immersed, sad, cry, and feel all the things!!!! Thank you, truly 💜

Yoongi is in fact the only one keeping her sane 🥹

I of course wrote it because I worry about these things, the state of the world, and sometimes I’m just waiting for everything to go to shambles, thinking it’s only a matter of time. Ugh. And yeah, then I remember that some people in parts of the world already have it bad and their lives are affected by stuff that goes on in their country, and I feel devastated too 😭

I’m glad it doesn’t feel like 20k+ words because I was getting worried it was getting too long!

Oh god, I had such a tough time with Jungkook, because initially I wanted to have killed him off, because that would have made Yoongi sadder and hurt more… but in the end, I couldn’t lol. So I too, imagine him running a survivor’s camp somewhere 🥹

To surmise, thank you so much for reading my story, for liking it so much that you wrote this fantastic review for me! It means so much to me, and I’ll always remember your review 🥹 THANK YOU 🫂

End of the World (m) | myg

→ Summary: Your government has been telling you to prepare for war, just as a precaution given the recent political changes around your country. Did you listen and prepare? No. Are you paying the price now, friends all but gone, and your city burned to pieces? Yes. Survival instincts kicking in, you search for a place to rest, nourish your battered and hungry body, only to find yourself at the porch of a stranger. Will he help you, or leave you to your own demise? → Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → Genres/AUs: apocalyptic, survival, co-dependency to stay alive + heavy angst, fluff and smut with a very small sprinkle of comedy. → Tropes: strangers to lovers + forced proximity & only one bed (because I love that shit) → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 21.3k 🫣 → Warnings + triggers: nuclear war (bombings), fire, death (people are dying so and some minor side characters die), blood and wounds (also features a lot), period blood, ptsd behavior and reactions, hunger (no access to food), anxiety attacks, hyperventilation, guns and knifes, shooting, self defense, m*rder in self defense, exposure to radiation. Minor character deaths. The ending is open and bittersweet. The story is just really grim and angsty and sad (but also comforting) 🤷 → Warnings (explicit: smut): oral (f and m receiving), nipple play/sucking, fingering, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, dirty talk, pleasing kink, protected sex (it might be the end of the world, but fret not Yoongi’s got condoms!), clit play, cockwarming, kissing, a small scene of public sex (they are outside on a hill, np people around). → Author’s note(1): So I have mixed feelings about it and the smut got less detailed than what I usually write (because I’m getting a bit tired of smut honestly, so sorry if it sucks), and I’m scared of what you’ll think of it— but here it is! I felt a lot of pressure with it, so I had my husband beta-ing it 😂 Which gave us a lot of laughs! I hope you enjoy it ⭐ → Read on AO3? [link]

A deep, ominous rumbling reverberates through the silence, a sinister caress against your ears.

Eyes shut tight, your breaths are slow and steady, an island of peace in a sea of unrest. But the tranquility shatters as the rumbling intensifies, transforming into a relentless quake that grips your bed. You jolt awake, eyes opening just in time to be seared by a blinding white flash, burning into your vision with a harsh, unforgiving light.

Your ears ring with an unforgiving high pitched sound that makes it feel like your ears are bleeding.

You flinch, squeezing your eyes shut once more, but the world doesn’t let you escape.

A cacophony of rumbling, shaking, and distant, panicked screams erupts around you.

When you dare to open your eyes again, your bedroom has transformed into a nightmarish landscape— no longer a safe, enclosed space, but exposed to the elements. The dark sky looms overhead, thick with acrid smoke. Everything is engulfed in an oppressive, inky gloom that seems so dark, dark, dark.

You curl into yourself on the bed, eyes wide as you take in the scene around you. It’s like a nightmarish tableau image from a dystopian survival movie: the once serene sky is now obliterated, suffocated by a churning ocean of thick, acrid smoke. Flames roar hungrily around you, casting an eerie, flickering light on the chaos. The air is thick with the sound of terrified screams and the relentless boom of destruction. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding furiously, as if it might burst from your chest at any moment.

The rumbling returns, more ominous this time, and you look up to see a fighter jet slicing through the smoke-choked sky. It releases a payload, and your heart clenches in dread. A deafening explosion follows as the bomb strikes, setting your ears ablaze again, and obliterating buildings and scarring the landscape. The screams of the people around you become a haunting symphony of terror. It feels like you’re trapped in an unending nightmare, each second more horrifying than the last.

You pinch yourself hard—so hard it breaks the skin, and a thin trail of blood trickles down. But the pain barely registers. You squeeze your eyes shut, then open them again, desperate to end the nightmare before you. This has to be a trick of the mind, an illusion, right?

But the horrifying reality remains unchanged, pressing in on you from all sides.

No. It’s not a trick of the mind.

The stark, horrifying reality sets in as your throat tightens and your body thrums with fear. This is real. This is happening—to you, to your friends—fuck. Your roommates.

Panic seizes you as you leap off the bed, the house now a fragmented ruin, its sections strewn outside in the chaos. Heart pounding, you scramble through the wreckage, desperately searching for your friends amid the devastation.

Please, let them be okay—you can’t face this alone.

You’re not prepared for this.

You can’t do this.

When the government warned about preparing for a potential war or a nuclear disaster, you thought it was a grim joke. You never believed it would actually happen—never believed it would happen to you. But now, the cold, harsh reality is crashing down around you, and the fear is suffocating.

Tears blur your vision, making it hard to see. The acrid air burns your lungs, and each breath is a struggle. The ringing in your head makes you dizzy. You cough violently, but you press on, driven by a desperate need to find your two roommates. You have to make sure they’re okay, no matter the cost.

A sound of coughing reaches your ears, and a wave of relief washes over you. You spot some of Hana’s belongings scattered on the ground, charred at the edges. The acrid smell of burnt fabric stings your nose. There, sprawled halfway on her bed, is Hana—coughing, crying, her eyes barely open, a picture of despair amid the wreckage.

“Hana?” you croak, your voice sounding strangled and unfamiliar, as if someone else is speaking. The dissonance sends your heart pounding even harder in your chest, the fear and urgency nearly overwhelming you.

She coughs again, crimson droplets falling from her lips, staining the ground beneath her. The sight of her blood on the ground sends a wave of dread through you. Rushing to her side, you assess her quickly; her complexion is pallid, drained of life. Each shallow breath she takes seems an agonizing struggle, as if the very act of breathing is draining her strength.

She struggles to speak, but you gently shake your head, tears streaming down your face. Deep down you know she won’t survive this. Your throat tightens painfully, a lump forming as you grasp the harsh reality. She’s not just a friend; she’s your best friend. Your hands tremble as you reach out, brushing away her tears, feeling the warmth of her blood on your fingertips. You don’t care about the stains. All you want is to offer her comfort, to reassure her even as your own doubts and tears blur your vision.

How could any of this ever be okay?

How is this your reality?

She leans into your trembling hand, her eyelids fluttering closed as she takes her final breath. A wave of anguish washes over your face, and you collapse beside her, your forehead touching hers. The weight of grief presses down on you, a suffocating blend of fear, helplessness, and nausea.

The distant screams jolt you back to the present, your chest tight with anguish for your best friend. With a heavy heart, you tear yourself away, knowing there’s another roommate who needs your help—Yuri.

Tears sting your eyes as you navigate cautiously through the debris. Your gaze fixates on a pair of shoes—whether they belong to you or Hana doesn’t matter now. Snatching them up, you slide them onto your bare, blistered feet, grateful for any protection from the searing ground and jagged remnants of the house strewn about.

You locate Yuri swiftly amidst the chaos; her bewildered expression a fleeting moment of relief. Your heart leaps at the sight of her alive. Ignoring the acrid smoke that burns your lungs, you pull her into a tight embrace with both of you coughing violently in the toxic air.

“What happened?” Yuri’s voice rasps through fits of coughing. Her wide eyes reflecting fear and confusion, her pallid face etched with disbelief.

“I don’t know,” you cry out desperately, clinging to Yuri as if your life depends on it, unwilling to let go for fear she might vanish into the chaos. Your grip tightens, desperate to shield her from the crumbling world around you.

Then, in the distance, alarms pierce the air with a relentless wail. A chill races down your spine, and as you meet Yuri’s gaze, an unspoken understanding passes between you—this is no accident. War has come.

You never thought this day would come, always dismissing warnings from politicians as distant, improbable threats. But now, as reality crashes down around you, you realize you should have listened. You should have prepared for the worst, braced for the impossible. Panic grips you as you face the stark truth: there’s no escaping it now. What the hell are you supposed to do?

The distant drone of planes echoes through the sky once more, and a chill of dread courses through your trembling body. You never imagined you’d fear the sound of airplanes, but in these shifting times, everything has become a harbinger of uncertainty.

The cityscape around you lies in ruins with buildings shattered and strewn like broken toys. The urgency grips you as you realize the only option left: escape the city.

Now.

“Yuri, we need to move,” you declare urgently, your eyes wide with dread—for the uncertain future, for your very survival. You curse under your breath, trying to quell the rising panic threatening to consume you.

Yuri’s eyes remain wide, almost vacant, as if she struggles to comprehend the shattered reality that surrounds you both—a new world, unfathomable and bleak.

You snap Yuri out of her stupor, dragging her along as you navigate through the shattered bathroom. The toilet lies in ruins on the ground, shards of the shower surround you like jagged teeth. Despite the chaos, you spot the first aid kit amidst the debris, knowing it will be crucial in this harsh new reality.

Yuri’s voice trembles as she blurts out, “We need to take those pills. In the pouch. I got them just in case. They’re potassium iodide pills and will protect your thyroid if there’s radioactive iodine in the bomb.” You hesitate for a moment, then nod in grim understanding. Snatching the pouch from its battered position, you fumble with it until you locate the pills. Each of you swallows one with a gulp, the bitter taste clinging to your tongue like a grim reminder of the world outside. With a heavy sigh, you tuck the pouch back into the depleted first aid kit.

“We need to find bags and gather anything useful,” you mutter. Your mind races in overdrive as you calculate what essentials are necessary for survival in this new reality.

Amidst the cacophony of screams and the encroaching flames, you and Yuri spring into action, scouring the wreckage for backpacks. They will be easier to carry when every ounce counts. Your hands shake as you rummage through the debris, grabbing water bottles, clothing, and anything else salvageable. Panic sets in, your heart pounding, realizing you need food too, right?

You trudge toward the kitchen, but it’s a wasteland—shattered glass, twisted metal, and the acrid smell of burnt remnants fill the air. Nothing remains salvageable, not even a scrap of food.

Panic surges through you.

No food?

How will you survive?

The reality hits hard: you’ll need to scavenge for food while fleeing the city. The wreckage around you is overwhelming, casting doubt on finding anything edible. How long can a person endure without food? The question gnaws at your mind, amplifying your fear and uncertainty.

Deflated, you sigh, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on you. Survival seems impossible, but you force a hopeful smile as you reunite with Yuri, masking your despair. The world around you is shrouded in darkness and gloom, every step a reminder of the bleakness ahead.

Screams echo all around you, a relentless assault on your senses. You try to block them out, but it’s impossible—the anguished cries of the wounded, the desperate calls for loved ones, the raw agony and fear permeate the air.

It’s unbearable; a living nightmare.

You ache to grieve for your friend, but there’s no time to stand still, no time to mourn what’s lost. With a heavy heart, you force yourself not to look back at Hana’s lifeless form. Grabbing Yuri’s hand, you push ahead, driven by a single, desperate resolve: to escape this hellish city. And fast.

Your body shivers despite the fires warming the air slightly. It’s still cold in the middle of September. You glance down at yourself, taking in your attire—a satin nightgown, its lacy seams stained with blood. But you can’t afford to care, nor do you have time to change. Your sole focus is to escape this hellscape, to put as much distance as possible between you and the burning city before worrying about anything else.

You pull Yuri away from the remnants of your house, each step deliberate as you navigate the treacherous debris. The ground is a minefield of twisted metal and shattered glass, and you can’t afford an injury.

Your heart races and your body shivers uncontrollably, but you force yourself to push forward. The streets are a nightmarish landscape of charred bodies, gutted buildings, and smoldering wreckage. The air is thick with the sounds of anguished cries and desperate shouts. Shattered windows, jagged glass, and twisted metal litter your path as flames roar high into the darkened sky.

You can’t fathom how quickly everything spiraled into chaos. In mere seconds, then minutes, the world you knew disintegrated into a living nightmare.

Your legs feel like lead, your mind foggy and exhausted. The cold, smoke-laden air clings to your lungs, but you force yourself to press on. Yuri’s hand in yours is the only anchor in this hellish new reality, a faint source of calm amid the chaos.

Thankfully, you live on the outskirts of the city.

Normally, you’d discern it was nighttime just by looking at the sky, but now, the sky is pitch black and choked with smoke. You avert your gaze from the devastated city and look toward what seems like a serene, calm direction. Is it an illusion, a cruel trick of your mind?

Desperation tugs at you, urging you toward this perceived sanctuary, a beacon of safety amidst the chaos.

Yuri coughs harshly behind you, and you spin around, dread tightening your chest as she spits up blood. You try to reassure yourself, though deep down, you know it’s futile.

“I don’t want to die,” Yuri pants between coughs, her voice strained with fear. You grip her hand tighter, desperate to offer reassurance in a world where safety is a fleeting illusion.

“You’re not going to die,” you assert, the words tasting bitter on your tongue, a feeble attempt to dispel the pervasive fear. “We’ll find a safe place, find some food, and make it through— everything will be fine.” You try to infuse conviction into your voice, but the hollowness echoes back at you, revealing the truth you dare not acknowledge.

But maybe if you keep telling yourself that everything is fine enough times, reality will bend to your desperate wishes?

You’ve been walking for what feels like an eternity, your sense of time warped by the perpetual darkness above. There’s no sky to gauge the hour anymore— gone as the stars that once were.

Your feet ache, battered and throbbing with exhaustion, begging for respite. The need for rest weighs heavily on you, but the city’s relentless grip refuses to release you. The daunting truth forces a weary sigh from your lips.

Yuri trembles, tears mingling with the grime on her cheeks, and you can’t shake the thought that she might be falling ill. Dread gnaws at you—what if it’s something fatal?

Your legs refuse to carry you any further, and staying exposed on the desolate road is a dangerous gamble. You’ve sensed shadows trailing your every move—what do they seek? Your clothes, the rations you don’t have, your very survival kit? You dare not linger to discover their intentions, yet exhaustion demands a pause. You must rest, even as paranoia grips your weary mind, hoping for a brief refuge to steady your faltering steps.

Adrenaline surges, urging you to hasten your steps, desperate to lose the shadowy figures trailing behind. The cityscape thins as you approach its outskirts. The dwindling buildings offer fewer places to conceal yourselves. Despite the fewer options, you’re determined to evade capture. With a sharp turn, you pull a breathless Yuri around the corner, heart pounding in sync with the echoing footsteps behind you.

You slip into a ravaged boutique, its shattered door gaping wide for easy entry. The dim interior reveals racks of torn clothing and broken mannequins strewn across the floor. You guide Yuri deeper inside, settling her on the dusty tiles. Her pallid face stands out starkly in the oppressive darkness, a chilling reminder of the perilous world outside. The thought of losing another friend tonight claws at your gut, urging you to find safety and respite in this decaying sanctuary.

“How are you holding up?” you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension. Despite your fear of the response, you must know.

She trembles, her voice quivering. “I’m not doing well,” she admits. Her eyes wide with unspoken dread. “I don’t think I’ll make it.”

“Of course you will,” you choke out, your voice cracking with emotion, unable to confront the specter of death. The memory of Hana’s bloodied face flashes vividly in your mind, tears tracing the path down your grimy cheeks. Why must this nightmare persist?

“You’re a lousy liar, you know?” she quips weakly, a grim chuckle escaping her lips as she coughs up blood, wiping her mouth with a trembling hand. She studies the red stains on her palm with resignation, exhaling heavily.

You furrow your brow. Deep down, you know your attempts at optimism are feeble at best. In your friend group, you’ve always been the pragmatic realist, but now, you’ll play the role of hopeful optimist if it means coaxing a smile from Yuri’s pale face. You bite back any further words, aware that Yuri can read you like a book, predictable as always.

You slump onto the frigid tile floor of the store, grateful for a brief respite from the relentless march. The cold seeps through your clothes, a bitter reminder of the world outside, but your weary feet finally find a moment’s reprieve.

You’re uncertain how much time Yuri has left, but you’re determined to muster every ounce of strength to lead both of you to safety, far from the chaos—this inferno of a city, this relentless war that has begun.

How long will this last?

The shuffle of broken glass on the tile sends a shiver down your spine, sharpening your senses. Someone approaches, and you’re defenseless. Panic grips you—this is bad. Very bad.

Footsteps echo ominously, a chilling reminder of imminent danger. Yuri’s gaze meets yours, wide with fear and tears threatening to spill. The certainty settles in—this is how you die.

A looming silhouette emerges—a figure cloaked in darkness; their presence ominous and foreboding. Dread creeps up your spine as you realize the danger before you.

You scramble backward, but the shelves halt your retreat, trapping you in a corner with no escape. Panic surges as time slips away—your feet ache, and Yuri’s condition weighs heavily. The man advances, his silence more menacing than any threat, his cold, unyielding gaze fixed upon you.

Uncertain of the stranger’s intentions—murder or something worse? Your heart races, adrenaline surges through your veins as he moves closer. In a split-second decision, survival instincts take over. You lunge, sinking your teeth into his arm, tasting the metallic tang of blood. Like a desperate animal, you bite down harder, unrelenting until he screams in agony and collapses to the ground, clutching his injured limb.

“You fucking bitch!” he spits, struggling to rise despite the pain.

You hiss through clenched teeth, rising to your feet, closing the distance to charge at him, a wild glint in your eyes. “Try me again, and I’ll bite your fucking dick off.” The threat hangs heavy in the air, punctuated by the burning cityscape beyond. Your blood simmers with adrenaline, a primal urge overshadowing your usual self-control. You’re not yourself anymore, but one thing is clear; you’re more than willing to follow through.

He flinches, a flicker of fear crossing his face, and satisfaction courses through you. Your grin widens as he scrambles backward toward the shattered entrance, then finally turns and bolts, disappearing into the smoke-laden darkness.

You exhale sharply, unaware you’d been holding your breath. Returning to Yuri, still hunched over on the floor, clutching her stomach, you kneel beside her, heart pounding in dread as you examine her stomach.

Carefully prying her hand away, the sticky warmth confirms your fear— blood, seeping from her abdomen. Swiftly lifting her nightshirt, you reveal a small yet troubling wound. Fumbling through your backpack, your hands find the first aid kit amidst the chaos, extracting antiseptic to cleanse the injury. With trembling hands, you cover it with gauze and secure it with tape, knowing it’s a temporary fix— but this will have to do for now.

“I think debris hit me when the first bomb struck,” she explains, her breath ragged and filled with pain.

“It’s okay. It’s not that bad,” you manage to say, forcing a smile that fails to reach your eyes. Who were you kidding anyway?

You settle beside her, allowing her head to rest on your shoulder. “Let’s rest. You sleep, and I’ll keep watch,” you murmur, scanning the shadows with wary eyes.

Her head nestles against your shoulder and neck. “But you need rest too,” she whispers. Her voice is barely audible over the distant sounds of chaos echoing through the shattered cityscape.

“I’ll sleep later. Don’t worry about it; just go to sleep,” you command, the edge in your voice betraying the fear and exhaustion gnawing at you. You didn’t mean to sound so stern, but the cold reality of the situation weighs heavily on your shoulders. You wish someone could offer you the same reassurance— tell you this is all just a bad dream. Soon you’ll wake up and everything will be as it was.

Or for someone to tell you this is all just a movie, and you’re just an actress playing your part in some bizarre doomsday flick. But deep down, you know you’re no actress, this is no movie— sadly, this is real life, and you’re just a twenty-nine-year-old woman with a dead-end job.

Guess you don’t have that job at the café anymore. There’s probably no café left standing. The place likely went up in flames like much else in the city.

You listen to Yuri’s breathing, its slow cadence a brief respite from the cacophony outside—planes droning, people fleeing, and the distant echoes of screams. In just a few hours, these sounds have become the new normal, yet each one still sends a shiver down your spine.

You keep vigil through the restless hours as you had assured Yuri. Time blurs in the suffocating darkness, making it impossible to discern whether it’s night or day. Hours seem to stretch like endless tendrils of despair. With dawn or dusk lost to the smoke-filled horizon, you gently rouse Yuri, steeling yourself to resume your desperate quest for safety.

Yuri’s voice, usually vibrant and full of life, now emerges as a subdued whisper. “So it wasn’t just a nightmare…” Her words hang heavy in the air, laced with the grim realization that this dystopian nightmare has become your bleak reality.

“I’m afraid so,” you admit, your voice echoing in the desolate store. “We have to keep moving. Get out of the city.” Your limbs ache with every movement, a constant reminder of the night’s horrors. Yawning, you rise and gently pull Yuri to her feet. Before venturing out, you take a sip of water from your dwindling supply, feeling hunger gnaw at your stomach. Food is a distant luxury now, replaced by the urgency of survival.

Stepping out of the store, you survey the aftermath; where once vibrant flames danced, now only smoldering ruins remain. The landscape is awash in gray and ash falling like snow, towering skyscrapers reduced to skeletal frames or gaping maws of destruction. Smoke billows thick and acrid, clawing at your throat with every breath, forcing a cough to escape. This city, once teeming with life, now lies desolate and unrecognizable—a shattered testament to a world irreparably changed. This was your home, but now it’s a forsaken wasteland, a haunting reminder of the relentless march of destruction closing in around you.

If you manage to escape this city, this will probably never be your home again.

Pressing onward, you drag a weary, ghostly-pale Yuri in tow. Each step feels like a battle against the weight of the world collapsing around you, but you refuse to relent. The streets stretch out before you, barren and haunting, a maze of debris and ominous shadows. You move cautiously, every sound magnified in the eerie silence of the ruined cityscape, knowing that survival hinges on reaching safety, no matter how small the steps.

You walk and walk. The road stretches endlessly into the horizon, an unrelenting path of despair. Gradually, the landscape shifts from the shattered remnants of the city to the bleak desolation of nature, though nothing remains green. Everything is gray and charred, the outskirts bombed into an unrecognizable wasteland. Each step is a journey through the aftermath of destruction, a grim testament to the world that once was.

Body heavy and feet blistered, you can barely drag yourself forward, and Yuri is faring even worse. You decide to stop, the weight of exhaustion forcing your hand. The world around you is silent save for the distant echoes of disaster. You find a small, secluded spot to relieve yourself, then reach into your backpacks for the precious water bottles. The liquid is a lifeline in this scorched, desolate landscape.

“I think I’m dying,” Yuri pants as she collapses onto a stone, her face ghostly pale, lips tinged with blue, eyes glassy and distant. The sight sends a cold lump forming in your throat, a suffocating denial choking you because you can’t accept this as reality. It has to be just a stupid fucking nightmare.

You glance at your arm where you pinched yourself yesterday. The tiny scar is a mocking reminder of your futile hope. You barely register the pain; all you want is for this nightmare to end, for the world to return to a semblance of normalcy.

“You’re not dying,” you insist, voice trembling as you crouch down to meet her gaze. But her eyes are distant, unfocused, as if she’s already slipping away. A tear escapes down your cheek, cutting through the grime of this hellish reality.

“Stop lying, bitch,” she hisses, her voice a fragile blend of defiance and despair. She rolls her eyes in mock anger, the gesture marred by the blood she spits up, staining the ground like a cruel reminder of reality.

“I can’t walk anymore, and my stomach hurts so bad,” she pants, tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face as she clutches her wound. Blood seeps through her shirt, a grim testament to her worsening state. You glance up at the sky, a bleak, gray expanse that offers no solace. Clenching your fist, you rage silently at the faceless enemies responsible for this devastation. It’s not just your friends; it’s the entire city, maybe the whole country. Fear gnaws at you as you realize you have no idea of the world’s state. Is it just your country? The entire world? You curse yourself for not packing a radio to stay informed.

You’re wondering if there would be any information on your phone, but you don’t want to use it, because you don’t have anything to charge it with. You want to save it for extreme emergencies.

“We’re finally out of the city,” you say, trying to infuse your voice with hope. “Maybe we can make it to another house down the road that can help us.” The words feel hollow, and you both know the truth: Yuri isn’t going to make it that far. Her labored breathing and the pallor of her skin betray the grim reality.

She coughs up more blood, almost choking. “We both know the next house is in the next city, over a hundred kilometers away,” she rasps, each word a painful reminder of the hopelessness stretching before you.

You lower your gaze to the grimy, ash-covered road. She’s right, of course. It’s likely far more than a few hundred kilometers, and the trek ahead promises to be an endless, harrowing journey through desolation.

Ashes swirl in the air like snow, a haunting reminder of your ravaged city. For a fleeting moment, you glance back, taking in the sight of crumbling buildings, smoldering remnants, and the acrid stench of smoke that clings to your senses. The scene turns your stomach, and you double over beside Yuri, bile rising in your throat, the bitter taste lingering like a grim testament to the city’s devastation.

“I’m freezing… Will you stay with me? Wrap your arms around me?” she pleads, her voice trembling with cold and fear, tears welling in her eyes, mirrored in yours. You nod silently, your heart heavy with the weight of what’s to come. She collapses onto the ground, and you join her, enveloping her frail, shivering form in your arms, seeking warmth amidst the chilling winds that whisper of desolation and despair.

“Promise me you’ll do everything you can to get to safety, okay?” she stutters, tears streaming down her cheeks, mixing with yours. Your heart breaks because you don’t want this reality. You can’t bear to lose another friend, but you’re helpless. You’re no doctor, and Yuri’s injuries are beyond your ability to heal. It’s a cruel truth that gnaws at your soul. Anger surges through you, directed at whoever orchestrated this devastation upon your friends, your city, your homeland. This world has become a cold and merciless place.

You’ve always been an ugly crier, and this is no different, but neither of you cares as tears stream uncontrollably down your faces. “I’ll try my best,” you manage to choke out, the words catching in your throat amidst the despair.

“When I’m gone…,” she begins, and a chill runs through your body at her words, “will you drag my body over to those bushes?” Her voice is strained, barely above a whisper, as if even speaking about her own death is too much to bear.

Even though your voice is hoarse, your wailing echoes through the desolate landscape, a mournful cry that seems to merge with the howling wind. You nod silently, tears streaming down your face, blurring the bleak surroundings into a haunting blur of despair and loss.

“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice barely audible as she lays her head down on your shoulder. Her breaths are faint and fleeting, each one a fragile thread in the unraveling tapestry of her life. You hold your breath, feeling the weight of each passing moment as her heartbeat dwindles, a painful echo of the world falling silent around you.

Your fists clench involuntarily, a futile attempt to grasp the reality unfolding before you: sitting beside your dying friend in this bleak, shattered world. This isn’t how life was supposed to be—witnessing the unraveling of everything you hold dear. You never signed up for this torment, this heart-wrenching despair that consumes you.

Why?

The question lingers like a haunting echo in the desolation.

Yuri’s breathing slows to a crawl, each breath a strained whisper of life. You turn your gaze to her face, her eyelids fluttering faintly—she’s clinging to existence. The agony etched on her features is unbearable, and a chilling realization settles in: maybe death is a mercy in this ravaged world. Her suffering is too much to endure, and part of you wishes she could escape it. It’s a cruel acceptance, knowing that letting go might be the kindest act left, even though you really don’t want her to go.

The silence closes in like a shroud, burnt leaves swirling in the air, whipped by the relentless wind. It’s eerie, the smoke and ash embracing everything. Your hand seeks Yuri’s, fingers tracing to her wrists, and there, you check for her pulse—absent, lost amidst the desolation.

You scream and cry, heedless of any who might hear amidst the desolate landscape. This world, so callous and unforgiving, engulfs you. Tears cascade down like a torrent, emotions unchecked. You gasp for air in the acrid, ashen atmosphere, your body trembling uncontrollably.

She’s gone. Another friend, lost to this merciless world.

You sit there, by the side of the road, time slipping through your fingers like sand in a storm. Hours pass, maybe more, the world reduced to desolation around you. A lone figure passed by earlier, casting a glance your way, but the urgency of survival drove him on, leaving you and your dead friend to the merciless elements. The city’s ruins loom in the distance behind you, a reminder of the chaos that has consumed everything.

You know you must move, but before you leave, there’s a promise to fulfill for Yuri.

You relieve yourself and step back onto the road, eyes fixed on the distant horizon that seems miraculously untouched by the ravages of war. That glimmer of hope pulls you forward. You have to reach it. No matter the distance, no matter the obstacles, you must get there.

It’s your only chance.

You walk and walk—days blur into weeks. Your clothes hang off your frame, tattered and too big. Bombings have become a constant backdrop, each explosion a distant rumble you barely acknowledge. The earth’s violent shudders no longer faze you. Hunger gnaws at you, a relentless companion, its grip tightening until you can’t even remember your last meal. Water, your only steadfast ally, has kept you moving; without it, you’d have long since fallen.

You trudge along the desolate highway, the city a distant speck on the horizon behind you. You have no sense of how far you’ve traveled, only that the remnants of your home have shrunk to a mere dot in your vision. The road stretches endlessly ahead, a bleak reminder of the ground yet to cover.

Dizziness is your constant companion now, your throat is parched as the Sahara despite your efforts to hydrate. Water is scarce, and you’ve been rationing it for days. Hope feels like a distant memory, and though the elusive horizon you’ve been chasing for weeks appears closer, it still seems maddeningly out of reach.

Your body feels like lead, your feet swollen and throbbing with every step.

Sleep is a distant memory, haunted away by visions of blood-streaked faces, final breaths, and echoing cries. Bloodshot eyes and a disheveled appearance mark your struggle; you’re still in your tattered nightdress, stained with blood and reeking of fear and sweat.

No food, no shower, just the relentless march through this wasteland.

You’ve lost track of time—is it still September?

The biting cold cuts through you, your torn and ruined shoes barely offering any protection. You trudge onward, desperate to find shelter, weary of hiding in the bushes from strangers who might wish you harm. Paranoia grips you; every rustle in the distance, every shadow makes you jump. Trust is a luxury you can’t afford. You feel like you’re unraveling, teetering on the edge of sanity.

The roses have withered, frost seeping into your bones. The birds no longer sing at dawn, and the grass by the roadside shrivels to brown. In the encroaching darkness, the cries of the forsaken echo—abandoned by fate and by man.

When your eyes land on a solitary house down a side street off the main road, you can hardly believe it. You’re nowhere near your end goal, the neighboring city, yet here it is—a lonesome house in the middle of fucking nowhere. You chuckle, convinced you’ve lost your mind. Why would there be a house out here, untouched by the chaos? You blink repeatedly, but the house remains. Your feet carry you forward, despite your spinning head and the jumbled mess of thoughts in your mind.

The house, partially concealed by tall trees and lush bushes miraculously untouched by bombs, seems like a relic from a forgotten world. An old jeep, battered but intact, sits beside the porch with its white picket fence. You approach cautiously, every step feeling surreal, and lift your hand to knock. Your bloody knuckles leave crimson smears on the pristine white door, a stark reminder of the nightmare you can’t escape.

You lose track of time standing there, every second stretching into an eternity, before the door is abruptly ripped open. You find yourself staring down the barrel of a rifle.

“Who are you?” a male voice demands, harsh and suspicious, but the words barely register. Your vision blurs, darkness encroaching, and the last thing you feel is the hard impact of the porch floorboards against your head as you collapse.

Slowly, your eyes flutter open, your eyelids feeling like lead, gritty with exhaustion. Your vision swims, a blur of muted colors and shadowy shapes. You blink, trying to bring the world into focus. Through the haze, you make out a figure sitting on a chair not far from you. Panic grips your chest.

Fuck.

Where are you?

Your pulse quickens, and you jolt into a sitting position with a startled gasp, blinking as your vision finally clears; you find yourself in a bed, surrounded by bandages and the sterile scent of antiseptic. You’re in someone’s house—a man’s house, and he's seated across from you, watching intently.

He sports long, unkempt black hair that curls at the ends, paired with a ragged shirt jacket, torn jeans, and a plain black tee. His knees jitter nervously, as if he can’t find solace or calm in this chaotic world.

He sits clutching the rifle that had greeted your face before you blacked out. A cold shiver courses through you, fear gripping your heart at the thought of imminent danger. But if he intended to harm you, wouldn’t he have done it already?

He clears his throat, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, harsh and demanding. His eyebrow arches in suspicion as he growls, “Who are you?”

His steely demeanor makes your throat tighten, but you swallow your fear and force out the words. “I’m Y/N. I live in the city. Well… I lived there, before…” Your voice trails off as the weight of your new reality presses down on you. Nervously, you bite your lip, eyes darting around the room. You’re in a bedroom—king-size bed, you assume. High open shelves are stocked with toilet paper, dry food, canned goods, plastic water bottles, multiple first aid kits, and warm blankets. The sight of these supplies leaves you gaping. “Are you a prepper?” you ask, disbelief tinged with a sliver of hope.

He scoffs, a bitter edge to his voice, clearly unimpressed by your assumption. “I’m not a prepper,” he snaps, eyes narrowing as he tightens his grip on the rifle. “Now, tell me what you’re doing here, unless you want me to shoot you.”

You gulp, your throat dry and tight— the cold steel of his rifle isn’t just for show. His steely eyes tell you he’s a man who will follow through on his threats. You need to speak quickly, clearly. “I’m fleeing from the city,” you sputter in a rush, words tumbling over each other. “My home is destroyed. I haven’t eaten in god knows how long, I’m thirsty, and I just want a place to rest and stay away from the war.” Your breath catches, lightheaded from the effort.

His eyebrows arch in surprise, the hard edge in his voice softening to a wary curiosity. “Have you been walking since the first bomb hit?” he asks, the malice momentarily replaced by a flicker of genuine intrigue.

You nod, exhaustion settling deep in your bones despite your unconscious respite. Time feels warped and meaningless. “How long have I been out?” you ask, the reality of your situation hitting harder as you notice you’re still in your tattered nightgown, a haunting reminder that it couldn’t have been long.

“Only an hour,” he replies, his voice a rough whisper. “I cleaned some of your scrapes and wounds.” He gestures to your arms and legs, now meticulously bandaged, the clean white stark against your dirt-streaked skin. The care feels almost alien in this ravaged world.

“Thank you,” you manage, offering a small, weary smile. The words feel foreign on your tongue. Despite the rifle and his guarded demeanor, you feel a sliver of tension ease in this fragile sanctuary.

“So you haven’t eaten anything in three weeks?” he suddenly shouts, disbelief cutting through his gruff exterior. His eyes scan you from head to toe, and you feel exposed, vulnerable under his intense scrutiny, making you squirm.

“Three weeks? That can’t be right... Maybe a week,” you mutter, your voice small as you fidget with the duvet covering your legs. You glance down at the bloodstained sheets, wondering why he placed you in the bed with your filthy clothes. But then again, in this shattered world, stained sheets are the least of your worries.

“It’s been almost three weeks since the bombings started,” he says, placing the rifle beside his chair. “I’m Yoongi, by the way. Sorry about pointing my rifle at you—it’s just...there’ve been people trying to raid my supplies.” He scratches his head, a nervous gesture that contrasts with the cold, hard edge of survival in his voice.

A sudden knock on the door startles both of you. You shiver on the bed, wide-eyed and afraid. Yoongi’s expression hardens as he swiftly picks up his rifle, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Friends of yours?” he asks, his voice low and tense.

Your eyes dart down to your trembling hands as a tear escapes, tracing a path down your grime-streaked face. “No,” you whisper, voice cracking, “Don’t have any more of those left.”

He notices the sadness in your eyes but remains silent, rising to his feet and heading toward the front door. You follow, a compulsion driven by a mix of fear and curiosity. As you move from the bedroom through a narrow hallway, you glimpse an open living room and kitchen space before reaching the door. Yoongi raises his rifle, mirroring the moment you first encountered him.

Before he can react, the door bursts open, slamming into him and causing him to stumble back. A wild-eyed man, covered in dirt and smeared with blood, lunges inside. His crazed gaze locks onto you as he charges forward, a feral desperation in his movements.

“Give me food or I’ll kill you!” he shouts, launching himself at your exhausted body. You hit the floor with a heavy thud, groaning in pain, but adrenaline kicks in, sharpening your senses. As you claw at his skin, the man, wild-eyed and desperate, seems beyond reason, driven by hunger and survival—much like yourself.

But you need to get him off you.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you use your legs to kick him in the groin. He hisses in pain, and you seize the moment, tumbling him over. His back hits the floor with a sickening thud. You straddle him, screaming and hissing, your hands instinctively finding his throat. You press down, your vision narrowing to the singular focus of survival, fueled by desperation and fear in a world gone mad.

He fights you for control, his nails digging into your sides, tearing your nightgown. In a violent twist, he’s on top of you again, pinning you to the floor. You struggle against his weight, every muscle screaming, the cold, hard surface pressing into your spine. The room spins around you, and the desperation in his eyes mirrors your own.

But then, he’s yanked off you, dragged by his hair, Yoongi’s grip unyielding. The intruder’s wild eyes meet yours for a fleeting moment before Yoongi raises his rifle. A deafening bang is sent through the room, and the man’s body crumples. Blood splatters everywhere, painting the floor in a macabre pattern. The scent of gunpowder mixes with the iron tang of blood, and the room falls into an eerie silence, save for the ringing in your ears.

You scream, the sound raw and primal, echoing in the suffocating silence. Your heart hammers against your ribs, each beat threatening to choke you. Nausea churns in your gut as the reality of what just happened slams into you. Who the fuck is this guy? He just killed a man! Disbelief crashes over you, and fear grips your chest like a vise. The room spins, your breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps as you teeter on the edge of hyperventilation, panic surging through your veins like ice.

You gasp for air, eyes wide with terror, as Yoongi throws the rifle to the floor. The stranger’s body lies motionless in a spreading pool of blood, a stark reminder of the brutality that surrounds you. Shivering uncontrollably, you try to crawl away from Yoongi and the corpse, each movement a struggle against your own paralyzing fear. Tears blur your vision as you sob, feeling like you’ve just traded one nightmare for another, the weight of this dystopian hell pressing down on you from all sides.

Yoongi approaches you cautiously, his voice low and soothing. “Relax, everything is okay,” he reassures, his hands extended in a calming gesture, fingers splayed to show he means no harm. Despite his gentle demeanor, you retreat further, wary and unsure if his kindness is a facade. The air is thick with tension, echoing the uncertainty of this dystopian world where trust is a luxury long lost.

“Okay? You just shot a man!” Your frantic scream echoes off the walls, each word laced with fear and disbelief as you feel the cold concrete pressing against your back. Panic rises, clawing at your throat. There’s nowhere left to go; you’re trapped, cornered in this unforgiving world.

“Yeah, he was going to kill us and steal my food.” his voice steady, as if justifying his actions were routine in this harsh reality.

You stare at him in disbelief, your gasping intensifying. “So that means he deserves to die?” The accusation hangs heavy in the air, tears streaming down your cheeks in rapid succession. Dizziness swirls through you, fingers tingling with adrenaline and fear.

“Relax,” he says again, his voice soothing yet unsettling as he moves closer.

You refuse to ease up. You want him gone, and you want this goddamn nightmare to end. You yearn for normalcy, for everything to revert to how it was before. You don’t belong here with this Yoongi, a stranger turned killer. How the hell are you going to escape this mess?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice steady yet tinged with an edge of authority. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be gone by now.”

His reassurances fall flat against the pounding of your heart. You struggle to process his words; your mind feels clouded, suffocated. Each breath is a battle, your chest constricting with a pain so intense, it threatens to overwhelm you.

“Please, calm down. You’re having a panic attack and you have to breathe calmly,” he urges, crouching before you. Your eyes widen with fear, anticipating harm from this stranger. Yet, as his warm hand gently rests on your shoulder, its reassuring weight steadies your erratic breaths. Tears still streaming, you gasp for air, but gradually, your breathing steadies, the tension in your chest easing with each controlled inhale.

“That’s good. Listen, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he assures, his gaze piercing into yours to convey sincerity. You nod hesitantly. Despite the fact that he’s taken a life, his actions in tending to your wounds suggest he harbors no ill intent toward you. Surely, he wouldn’t go through all that trouble if his intentions were sinister, would he?

“I can’t believe you killed a man, just like that…” you mutter in disbelief, your voice tinged with horror.

“Would you rather he killed us?” he asks bluntly, a shrug punctuating his matter-of-fact tone.

“No,” you reply, the certainty in your voice belying the tumult of emotions inside you.

“Look. It was either him or us. I’d rather live. This is just how life is now, I guess,” he says solemnly, rising to his feet and striding past the lifeless body toward the kitchen. He returns with biscuits and a water bottle. “Here, eat some crackers and drink some water. You have to start slow if you haven’t eaten in weeks,” he advises gently, handing you the items. Your fingers brush against his as you take them.

“You can take a shower; it’s in the bedroom. While you do that, I’ll get rid of the body.”

You nod, fingers trembling as you pry open the crackers and take a hesitant bite. They taste dry and unfamiliar, like they’ve been preserved for years. Your stomach churns in protest, unaccustomed to solid food after weeks of deprivation. Sipping water, you set both items down beside you.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, offering him a small, grateful smile, relief flooding through you as your heart finally settles into a steady rhythm.

“No problem. You can grab some of my clothes in the bathroom. That poor nightgown isn’t doing much to cover you,” he says with a slight chuckle. You glance down and realize half of your right breast is exposed, your hands instinctively flying to shield it from view.

You’re embarrassed, cheeks burning, and you scramble up from the floor, not saying a word because the humiliation is overwhelming. Your breast has been exposed all this time, likely since the scuffle with the man, and Yoongi didn’t mention it until now? You rush back to the bedroom, pushing away thoughts of Yoongi seeing you half-naked and what he might do with the body in his living room.

In the bedroom, you easily locate the in-suite bathroom at the end; it boasts a large bathtub, a sleek shower, a toilet, and a spacious sink, all in matte black with subtle white accents, strikingly minimalistic. Approaching the bathtub, you turn on the water, feeling its warmth soothe your battered hand. It’s a strange sensation, one you haven’t felt in what seems like an eternity, and a rush of anticipation flutters in your chest at the prospect of a proper shower. As the tub fills, you shed your clothes, discarding the nightgown into the garbage—it’s beyond salvaging. Glancing at yourself in the mirror, what meets your eyes is a stranger, not the person you once were but a mere shell. Your skin is streaked with grime, your face swollen, especially beneath your eyes, and your hair wild and unruly.

Finally, the tub fills to the brim, and you shut off the stream, testing the temperature with your hand—it’s perfect, pleasantly hot, promising a thorough cleanse. Eagerly, you step into the water, noting the array of shower bottles within reach. You grab one, twisting off the cap to release a refreshing minty scent that envelops you. The shampoo and conditioner bear the same invigorating fragrance. Yoongi must have a thing for mint, you think to yourself with a faint smile, grateful for this small comfort after enduring the trials of the past three weeks.

The notion that so much time has passed feels surreal, almost impossible to grasp.

You let the warm water envelop and soothe your weary body, a brief respite from the horrors that haunt you—before the bombings, before this relentless war. The shower gel lathers as you wash away the grime, shampooing your hair with a sense of renewal. For a fleeting moment, the sensation of cleansing almost allows you to forget the devastation that brought you here.

But guilt grips you tightly, a suffocating embrace. You feel the weight of being alive when your friends are gone, their lives snuffed out mercilessly. The simple joy of a bath, forever denied to them, brings tears to your eyes, mingling with the water surrounding you.

You can’t stand to stay in the tub any longer, despite not feeling physically clean. Quiet sobs escape your lips as you stand, chest tight with sorrow for what has been taken from you, and for what you can never reclaim.

Hastily, you snatch a gray towel, wrapping it around your shivering frame as tears trace silent paths down your cheeks in the mirror’s reflection. The ache for your lost friends deepens with each droplet that falls. Drying off with hurried strokes, the plush towel offers some comfort against your skin. You manage to towel-dry your hair as best as you can, seeking normalcy in the routine.

Then, a glimmer catches your eye—a toothbrush. The realization hits hard: you haven’t brushed your teeth in three weeks. Your gaze darts around the bathroom, finding only one brush. Is it gross to use someone else’s? Disgusting, maybe? You search the cabinets in vain for a spare, but finding none, you convince yourself it’s okay. You’ll sanitize it thoroughly, make it right. With meticulous care, you rinse the toothbrush under the stream, scrubbing it clean before applying toothpaste.

The brush feels foreign in your mouth, yet it scrubs away the layers of neglect, refreshing your senses in a way you hadn’t realized you craved.

When you finish, you step out into the bedroom, scanning Yoongi’s dresser for any clothing that might fit. Not expecting to find undergarments, you ponder going without or resorting to his if necessary. Pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants, you cover your legs before grabbing a black t-shirt and slipping it over your head. Spotting a pair of cozy socks nearby, you hastily put them on and make your way into the living room, the unfamiliar garments a stark reminder of the upheaval your life has become.

You step into the living room, confronted by an unsettling contrast of cleanliness and calm amidst the recent violence. It’s as if the room has been meticulously scrubbed of any trace of the fatal encounter that unfolded mere moments ago. You can’t help but question whether Yoongi is unnervingly efficient at erasing the aftermath of death or if you’ve lost track of time while in the bath, leaving you to wonder what else might have transpired in your absence.

You spot a door tucked away in the dimly lit living room, its handle cold to the touch. Slowly, you push it open, and a shiver snakes down your spine at the grim sight that greets you. “Are those... bodies?” you choke out, a mix of revulsion and horror tightening your throat as you gaze upon the macabre pile in the corner of the yard. Yoongi turns around, his expression unreadable, having added the latest stranger to what appears to be a makeshift graveyard of those he’s encountered before you.

“Yeah?” he shrugs nonchalantly, as if it’s inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.

“How many people have you killed?” you demand, hands on your hips, trying to steady your nerves.

He pauses, the silence stretching between you, each moment heightening the weight of his answer. “Five,” he finally admits, his voice carrying the weight of each life taken in this unforgiving world.

“Five?! That’s a lot— five too many,” you spit out in disbelief, the weight of his confession sinking into your bones. You can’t stand to dwell on it any longer. Death surrounds you like a shroud, and you’ve seen enough to last a lifetime. Turning away, you hear Yoongi’s footsteps approach from behind, each step a reminder of the grim reality you now face.

“Like I told you before, it was me or them. I was only defending myself and my home,” he shrugs nonchalantly, pushing the door open as you follow him into the living room. He settles onto the couch, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the pristine room that belies the violence it has witnessed.

“Did you have a nice shower? You smell nice,” he smiles warmly, pulling a blanket over his legs.

You gape at him—how can he be so calm? He just killed a man, and now he acts like it’s no big deal, no remorse, no hint of the violence that just transpired.

“I smell like you, and yes, your tub is very nice. Your clothes too. Thank you,” you reply, sitting down on the couch, keeping a deliberate distance between you. After what you’ve witnessed, it feels safer that way.

“You really held your own back there, with the guy. It was kinda hot,” he says, his tone as casual as discussing the weather or deciding what to eat.

Your mouth hangs open. Is this guy serious?

“Something’s seriously wrong with you if you find that hot. Please don’t tell me you’re aroused or something. I’m not touching you or helping you with your boner—I barely know you,” you say, crossing your arms defiantly across your chest.

He chuckles, a deep, resonant sound that reverberates through the room, a stark contrast to the desolation outside. You gaze at him, stunned by the unexpected display of humor.

“I’m not aroused and if I did have a boner, I could take care of it myself, don’t you worry. I just respect women who can fend for themselves,” he says with a smile, settling deeper into the worn cushions of the couch.

“Well, I know self-defense. My dad drilled it into me as a kid and teenager. Have you seen how messed up the world is? Even before this war or whatever it is, men were always preying on women or men, lurking in shadows, stalking, abducting them—doing who knows what. I had to learn to protect myself,” you explain, watching him nod in understanding, his eyes reflecting a grim acknowledgment of the world’s harsh realities.

“That’s good. Oh, I forgot to mention, I left your backpack next to the couch—by the way, you look good in my clothes,” he grins, rising from the couch and moving over to the kitchen.

“Want some dinner? I’ve got leftovers we can reheat,” he mumbles from the kitchen. You nod silently, your mind elsewhere as you walk over to your backpack. You hardly remember what kind of stuff you grabbed from home—hopefully clothes, maybe some underwear would be nice. Digging through it, you find only two pairs of leggings, three shirts, and a bra. Well, it seems like unlucky is just your color.

Doesn’t matter, you can go without panties. It might be a problem when your period comes, but that’s a worry for another day.

You hear a beep from the kitchen and join Yoongi there. Whatever he’s reheated is ready, and you take a seat at the round table positioned between the kitchen and the living room. Yoongi retrieves cold water from the fridge.

“So, you’re not a prepper, but you’ve stockpiled enough to survive indefinitely. Why?” you inquire between cautious bites, mindful of not agitating your stomach.

“Didn’t you listen to the government? They told us to prepare for anything, just in case. And I prefer to be ready. Call me a prepper if you want,” he shrugs, spearing his food with his fork.

“I noticed all your shampoo in the bathroom. What else have you stocked up on?” you ask, genuinely curious. You hadn’t prepared for any of this, refusing to believe something like a war could happen in your country.

“I’ve got spare clothes, solar-powered batteries, extra fuel for the truck, a backup generator for power outages, and even a well in the backyard in case the water supply is cut,” he lists with a chuckle. But your eyes widen almost to the point of popping out of their sockets; you’ve never encountered anyone so thoroughly prepared.

“What’s your deal then? You live out here by yourself in the middle of nowhere?” you choke out as you take a sip of your water.

“Yeah, I don’t like people,” he says with another shrug, and you almost spit out your water. Oh god, he’s probably one of those eccentric types.

“Let me rephrase that; I just prefer my own company,” he explains, his voice steady but with a hint of guardedness.

“Well, what am I doing here then?” you chuckle with a smile, though you feel some insecurities seep into your blood.

“You wouldn’t last another day out there. And it’s not that I don’t enjoy company. Maybe we can help each other out, stay alive together?” he shrugs again, and you begin to wonder if he can do anything else but shrug.

“Like make life more bearable together?” you ask, and he nods.

“Yeah. Just keep each other company. It is pretty lonely out here,” he sighs, carrying his plate back to the sink to clean and put in the dishwasher.

“We can do that,” you say, yawning and stretching your body, feeling the tiredness wash over you. You wish for a good night’s sleep, something you haven’t had in weeks.

“Sleepy?” he chuckles, flashing a pearly set of teeth and pink gums.

“Yeah. Honestly, I haven’t had proper sleep since the bombings,” you yawn again as Yoongi takes your plate and cleans it too.

“Then maybe we should go to bed?” he suggests, clearing the table.

“Yeah, if you can just show me to the guest room, that would be nice,” you yawn again, feeling the weight of exhaustion pulling you down.

Yoongi burst into laughter again, his voice echoing through the desolate walls. “Guest room? Y/N, there’s only one bedroom. You’re bunking with me unless you prefer the icy embrace of the couch.”

Your eyes widen, reluctance shadowing your thoughts as the idea of sleeping in the cold chills you. Yet, the notion of sharing a bed with him unsettles you; he remains a stranger, and despite his seemingly gentle demeanor, your instincts keep you on edge. You sigh, resigned to the exhaustion that weighs heavily on you. “Sharing a bed will have to do,” you mutter, your voice tinged with apprehension and weariness.

You both walk together to his bedroom, the air thick with a strange tension that makes your heart pound erratically in your chest. It’s not the first time you’ve shared a bed with a man without any sexual connotation, yet there’s an odd intimacy in this moment that unsettles you. You forego any further preparation, having already showered and brushed your teeth — though you remember something.

“I used your toothbrush earlier, I hope that’s okay,” you mention tentatively, eyeing the bed, its sheets faintly stained with your blood. They definitely need changing. “Do you have clean sheets?” you ask, turning towards the bathroom where Yoongi directs you to the cabinet with fresh linens and mentions he has a spare toothbrush.

You strip the stained sheets off and swiftly tuck in fresh ones, craving the comfort of a proper sleep. The thought of lying in clean bedding is a rare luxury now. There’s just one duvet, though, and you wonder if sharing it will be a challenge. Shedding the sweatpants, you opt for the black shirt, its length offering modesty. As you settle into the bed, pulling the covers snugly up to your chin, you relish the cocoon of warmth, a brief respite from the harsh reality outside.

Yoongi emerges from the bathroom, his chest bare and marked by scars on his shoulder, wearing plain black boxers. You gulp involuntarily. Damn it, you shouldn’t be ogling him like that, but your cheeks burn nonetheless.

He slides into bed beside you but maintains a respectful distance under the covers, leaving a gap that allows a chilling draft to sneak beneath the duvet, making you shiver involuntarily.

“Cold?” he asks, his voice devoid of the usual teasing tone that has marked the day. Instead, it carries a hint of genuine concern, almost comforting.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be a burden,” you sigh, shifting to feel the warmth against your front, trying to ignore the chill creeping up your back.

“We can huddle closer for warmth,” he suggests, and you ponder it briefly, realizing it might help you sleep better anyway.

“Okay,” you agree, and moments later, Yoongi edges nearer, his chest pressing against your back. Instantly, his warmth envelops you, quelling the shivers that had plagued you.

You drift into sleep soon after. Yoongi maintains his distance, his chest against your back serving as a reassuring anchor, his hands remaining still as he promised. Finally, the respite from constant danger allows you to embrace a much-needed slumber.

You’re drenched in sweat, heart pounding against your chest, breaths coming fast and shallow as you gasp, “Don’t leave me, Yuri! Please, Hana, don’t go. Please don’t die!” You twist and turn, tears streaming down your face, overwhelmed by fear and sorrow. Your eyes refuse to open, exhaustion and dizziness enveloping you, yet vivid images flash before your mind’s eye, forcing a scream from your throat.

A pair of strong hands grips your arms, shaking you gently, and you register a voice calling out urgently, “Y/N, wake up. It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.”

Oh, it’s Yoongi.

Right, you’re in Yoongi’s bed.

A stranger you met only hours ago.

Despite his reassurances, your body refuses to comply, shaking uncontrollably as the remnants of the nightmare cling to your senses.

“Can I hold you? Maybe it’ll help calm you down,” he suggests softly. Even though you can’t muster the strength to open your eyes, his voice anchors you.

“Please,” you sob, and he turns you gently, your back against his chest, enveloping you in his arms. His soothing shushes echo, reminiscent of comforting a restless child—surprisingly effective.

Gradually, your racing heart steadies, the tremors subside, and your breathing finds a steady rhythm.

You open your eyes to darkness enveloping the room. “I watched my friends die. Their faces haunt me almost every night,” you sob, burying yourself deeper into his embrace. Forget the fact that he’s practically a stranger; his comforting presence and the safety of his arms offer solace you’ve longed for. After endless days of running, hyper-aware and on edge, it feels strangely liberating to allow yourself this moment of vulnerability. You’re still strong, but right now, in his arms, it’s okay to seek refuge.

You feel his hand on your head, gently stroking your hair. “It’s okay. It will get better with time,” he reassures you.

Sniffling, you surrender to exhaustion, finding solace in his arms once more. Despite your initial reservations and the day’s unsettling events, you feel an unexpected sense of safety with him. Weariness overtakes your caution, and you drift into a deep sleep, cradled by Yoongi’s reassuring presence throughout the night.

When you wake, a sticky, uncomfortable wetness between your thighs jolts you into full consciousness. You sit up and glance at Yoongi, still asleep beside you, his long hair tousled and face serene, lips slightly parted with steady breaths. Dread fills your gut as you peel back the covers. The sight of blood staining the white sheets freezes your breath, a scream clawing its way out of your throat, piercing the quiet of the room.

Yoongi bolts upright, momentarily disoriented, his eyes darting around the room for danger. His gaze falls on the crimson-stained sheets and your trembling form. Panic flashes across his face as he instinctively reaches for you.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice low and raspy with sleep, cutting through the air like a blade.

You force yourself to calm down, the panic subsiding as you realize the source of the blood. “No, it’s just my period,” you pant, trying to steady your breath and racing heart. It hits you with a mix of relief and embarrassment—over a month since your last one, but the sight of the stained sheets fills you with shame.

Yoongi’s tension eases, his shoulders relaxing. “Oh,” he says, understanding dawning in his eyes. There’s no danger, just the harsh reality of life. He gives you a comforting look, a rare softness in his hardened gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you ramble, sliding off the bed, mortified by the mess. “I didn’t wear underwear because my panties were ruined, and I didn’t want to trouble you for your boxers. I don’t even have pads or tampons.” Your words tumble out in a rush, the embarrassment amplifying every second.

Yoongi sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Relax, it’s okay,” he says, his voice steady and reassuring. “You can take some of my boxers. I’m not stocked up on pads or tampons, but you can just use cloth that we wash.”

If you weren’t in a slight panic, maybe you’d notice how good he looks with bed hair and his bare torso, but instead, you rush out to the bathroom, still blushing from the unexpected intimacy and the rawness of the situation.

Yoongi joins you, a pair of his boxers in hand, as you futilely try to dry yourself with toilet paper. It’s no use.

“You should take a bath and wash off the blood,” he says, placing the boxers on the countertop. “I’ll take care of the bed.”

You nod, desperate to rid yourself of the blood, and without a second thought, you grab the edges of the black t-shirt you borrowed and pull it over your head, not caring that Yoongi is still there, probably watching you. His presence feels oddly comforting in this grim reality.

“Nice ass,” he smirks as you step into the shower. You can’t believe he finds you attractive in this state—blood running down your thighs. How can you really look appealing like that?

He’s either weird or into some strange shit.

You don’t reply, just shut the curtain fast, turning the showerhead on and letting the warm water caress your skin. The blood washes away, swirling down the drain as you clean yourself thoroughly. Damn, you really hate your period. Stepping out of the shower, you grab a towel and dry off. You spot some ripped cloth Yoongi left for you to use as makeshift pads.

Yoongi is incredibly kind, you realize, and it brings a rare smile to your lips. You dress with the makeshift pads stuck in his boxers and then walk out, covering your breasts, not wanting to wear the shirt you slept in. The warmth of the shower lingers, but the cold reality of the dystopian world waits just outside the bathroom door.

In the bedroom, Yoongi has replaced the bloodstained sheets with black ones, blending seamlessly with the oppressive gloom outside. As he turns to meet your gaze, you can’t help but blush, standing there before him semi-naked.

“Do you have a shirt I can borrow again?” you ask, your voice shaky with unsaid emotion and a confusing undercurrent of attraction.

He nods and rummages through his dresser, pulling out another black tee. You can’t help but wonder if black clothing is the only thing he owns, as if he’s trying to match the bleakness of the world.

“Thank you. I’ll just find my bra in my backpack,” you quip, the words sounding hollow as you step out next to the bed and search through your belongings.

“You don’t have to wear one, you know. You’re free to do whatever. If you’re more comfortable without one, it’s okay,” Yoongi says, his voice gentle yet firm. His words halt your movements. He’s right. You don’t really want to wear a bra; you’d only wear it because it’s the ‘proper’ thing to do. But he doesn’t seem to care about such trivialities, and comfort sounds far more appealing in this bleak reality.

You stop searching for the item and simply pull on the shirt he’s given you, the fabric soft against your skin.

As Yoongi gets ready with a shower and fresh clothes, you wander into the kitchen, your stomach growling. The dull ache in your abdomen also reminds you of your period, and you curse under your breath. Pain meds would be nice, but you have no idea where Yoongi keeps them. The thought of asking him feels like a small admission of vulnerability, something you’re not entirely comfortable with yet. But the pain is relentless, and in this world, there’s no room for stubborn pride.

Yoongi emerges from the bedroom, catching sight of you clutching your stomach. “Do you need painkillers?” he asks, his tone a mix of concern and practicality. He gestures to a cabinet. You nod, biting your lower lip as you move to find the pills, swallowing them with some water.

In the kitchen, you both work in a synchronized silence, preparing a simple meal. The quiet between you isn’t awkward; it’s a welcome respite from the chaos outside. As you eat, the distant sound of bombs punctuates the air, a grim reminder of the world beyond these walls.

Afterwards, you settle on the couch, the weight of the day pressing down on you. Yoongi sits beside you, the proximity offering a strange comfort. The silence stretches, filled with the unspoken understanding that, for now, survival is enough. The faint echoes of destruction fade into the background as you allow yourself a rare moment of peace, nestled in the fleeting safety of Yoongi’s makeshift sanctuary.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” you ask, turning to face Yoongi abruptly.

“For now, I think so,” he replies calmly, his gaze fixed on the flickering light from a nearby candle. The distant cacophony of destruction outside barely registers with him.

“You have a radio, right? Have you heard what’s going on?” Your curiosity is tinged with desperation. Three weeks of aimless wandering have left you clueless about the extent of the chaos—whether it’s confined to your city, your country, or if fleeing abroad could offer safety.

“Yeah, I do. It started with our country and the neighboring countries that were bombed, but now it’s escalated into a full-blown nuclear world war,” Yoongi answers, his voice tinged with resignation. “They say this might be the end of the world as we know it.”

Your throat tightens.

The end of the world.

Fuck.

It’s a phrase that carries weight beyond comprehension. You fall silent, nervously fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. Yoongi notices your unease and his hand gently encircles yours, a silent gesture of reassurance amidst the chaos engulfing the world outside.

“I understand you’re scared, and it’s okay. I’m scared too,” Yoongi’s voice cuts through the dimness, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of something indiscernible. His honesty offers a rare comfort amidst the uncertainty that permeates every corner of your existence. “But there’s not much we can do about it, except try to stay alive. Frankly, I’m happy you’re here. At least we have each other in this shitty world.”

His sincerity touches you in a way that words struggle to express. Despite the looming dread, his presence brings a semblance of solace. “I guess you’re right,” you muse softly, a fleeting smile gracing your lips. The mere thought of not facing this bleak reality alone lifts your spirits more than you’d expected. “I’m also happy to not be alone anymore.”

“Come here,” he invites, arms open, a silent gesture that beckons you to his side. Initially hesitant, you meet his gaze with a questioning stare before relenting, offering a gentle smile as you scoot closer. His arms envelop you, pulling you into a comforting embrace as you rest your head against his shoulder.

In this moment, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, you allow yourself the luxury of comfort. It doesn’t diminish your strength or resilience; it’s simply a reprieve, a respite from the relentless struggle for survival. You listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, its reassuring cadence grounding you amidst your racing thoughts, reminding you that in this fractured world, even fleeting moments of solace are worth cherishing.

You’ve been grumpy for days—blame it on your period, though Yoongi has tirelessly tried to ease both your pain and your sullen mood. He’s taught you the art of baking sourdough bread, introduced you to new games, and even guided you through painting sessions, all while the world around you crumbles bit by bit. Each night, he holds you close, his warmth soothing both your body and your restless thoughts. If you denied feeling a spark between you, you’d be lying. It’s an unspoken tension that has simmered since you first met, and you’re certain he feels it too, though neither of you acknowledges it or acts upon it.

The reason for your inaction eludes you—is it fear of rejection, uncertainty about what this attraction truly means amidst the chaos, or simply the desperate need for companionship in a desolate world? You wrestle with these thoughts, wondering if your feelings are genuine or born out of circumstance. Perhaps that’s why you’ve held back, because deep down, you want to desire him for who he is, not just because he’s the only person around, and certainly not solely out of physical need.

You realize you’re nearing the end of your period because since yesterday, every little thing Yoongi does seems incredibly arousing. Folding laundry becomes a sensual act as you watch the muscles in his arms move, his focused demeanor igniting a fire within you. Even mundane actions like drinking water capture your attention, the movement of his throat and the bob of his Adam’s apple now irresistible to you. It’s clear you’ve got it bad, and you feel like you’re slowly losing your sanity.

Yet amidst this chaotic world, you’ve come to a profound realization: it’s not merely Yoongi’s availability that attracts you, but the essence of who he is.

“Do you want to get drunk?” he asks abruptly, pulling your attention away from your swirling thoughts after dinner. Both of you sit motionless, avoiding the cleanup that beckons. You blink at him, incredulous, but the idea holds a strange allure. The prospect of drowning the world’s chaos in alcohol for a fleeting moment seems oddly appealing.

“Yeah. What do you have?” you inquire, leaning forward across the table, eager to hear his answer.

“Only the hard stuff,” he replies with a smile, rising to clear both your plates.

You nearly choke on his words, a momentary blur conjured by your horny mind. The double meaning triggers a rush of both embarrassment and arousal, betraying your thoughts once again.

You assist in tidying up, your heart pounding inexplicably loud in your ears. There’s a nervous energy tingling through you, a strange excitement, as you settle onto the couch. Yoongi locates two mugs and heads to a well-stocked cabinet filled with an array of hard liquors. The sight leaves you momentarily impressed — the man is prepared for anything.

Returning with a bottle of whiskey, he notices your slight frown, likely recalling your distaste for its taste. Yet, any strong spirit would elicit a similar reaction from you. He sets down the bottle, retreats to the kitchen for ice, then returns to pour the amber liquid into your mugs.

“Thank you,” you quip, raising the mug to your lips and taking a cautious sip, grimacing at the harsh taste, eliciting a chuckle from Yoongi. He sips his whisky casually, as if it’s a ritual he’s performed countless times before — which, given his ease, might very well be the case. The amber liquid seems to suit him, and you strive to mimic his nonchalance, the flavor gradually becoming more palatable with each swallow. Eventually, a subtle warmth spreads through your body, a faint buzz that hints at relaxation in this tumultuous world.

He pours more whiskey into your mugs, and you drink, feeling the world blur around you, but Yoongi remains sharply focused in your gaze. His laughter cuts through the haze, accompanied by glimpses of his pearly white teeth and endearing pink gums, as he shares stories of his friends and their reckless escapades.

“Then Jungkook would leave the poor girl hanging,” he chuckles, a deep, resonant sound that brings a smile to your face and colors your cheeks.

“But that’s so bad,” you manage to reply between sips. Despite being thoroughly drunk by now, you relish Yoongi’s company and the friendship you now share. His presence makes the chaotic world feel momentarily lighter. You’re grateful he’s as intoxicated as you are, though you suspect he handles his liquor with more finesse.

Your eyelids flutter, cheeks warm as your gaze lingers on Yoongi, captivated by his sweetness and kindness amidst the dystopian chaos.

“What?” he chuckles softly, catching your prolonged stare.

“Your lips look really soft…” The words slip out, your filter completely gone, the confession hanging between you like an unspoken truth.

“Kiss me and find out,” he challenges, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His gaze, deep and compelling, draws you closer until your noses almost touch. With eyes closed, you lean in, meeting his lips in a gentle press. The warmth of his skin against yours, the taste of whiskey on his breath, sparks an unexpected thrill. Your hands find his, fingers intertwining, and a soft moan escapes your lips, lost in the softness and warmth of his kiss.

Your mind swirls, a dizzying mix of alcohol and the intoxicating scent of Yoongi enveloping you. You feel intoxicated by his presence, as if he’s a drug you never want to quit. Kissing him feels like an escape from the harsh reality of the world outside, a brief reprieve where everything is right.

But as you reluctantly pull back for a breath, both of you panting, his eyes are filled with desire and a knowing smirk. Without hesitation, he leans in again, kissing you fiercely. His urgency overwhelms you as he presses you down onto the couch, your hand instinctively gripping his neck, desire pooling in your stomach. You ache for him, craving more than just his touch.

He pulls away with a grunt, his voice rough with desire. “I really want to fuck you. But I want to do it sober.”

You groan softly, the heat of the moment tempered by the clarity of his words. Alcohol fuels your desire now, but you yearn for a clear-headed connection. You nod in agreement, and he pulls you up from the couch, his touch firm and purposeful.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other in bed in other ways,” he adds suggestively, leading you toward his bedroom. You follow eagerly, a wide smile spreading across your face, anticipation tingling in your veins.

In the bed, little else happens beyond kissing, the alcohol still clouding your senses. You manage to undress each other and slip under the covers; your bodies drawn together by an irresistible pull, seeking solace and warmth. More kisses follow, each one infused with a sense of fleeting bliss and exhaustion. Eventually, Yoongi spoons you as he always does, enveloping you in a cocoon of affection that feels more profound than anything you’ve experienced before. It’s a fleeting moment of respite amidst the chaos of the world crumbling outside.

When you wake, the throbbing pain in your head pulls you back to reality. You groan softly, slowly coming to, feeling Yoongi shifting beside you. His arms are still wrapped around you, in a comforting embrace.

His voice, thick with sleep, breaks the morning silence. “Morning. Do you have a headache too?”

You chuckle softly, nodding as you nuzzle your back into him, his warm, nearly bare body—save for his boxers—shielding his erection. “Yeah,” you groan, feeling the fatigue lingering, yet also acutely aware of Yoongi’s touch, his fingertips gently tracing over your bare skin.

“Want to take a shower together? Might help with the headache,” he suggests, his voice still husky with sleep. You nod, both of you slipping out of bed and padding into the bathroom together.

There, you shed your minimal clothing—a shirt of Yoongi’s for you, his boxers for him. It’s the first time you’re both seeing each other naked, a realization that hangs heavy in the air. For a moment, you simply gaze at each other, skin tingling with anticipation and desire, yet neither of you utter a word. You silently drink in each other’s presence, wondering if he finds you as appealing as you find him. The way he licks his lips with hunger suggests he does. You study his body: soft yet lean, pale skin a testament to a life spent indoors, away from the harsh realities of this broken world.

His dick appears soft, yet it pulses with undeniable arousal, sending warmth through your skin and stirring a primal desire between your legs. His appearance is captivating, his dark brown pubic hair adding to his allure, compelling you to join him in the shower.

He turns on the water, and as it sprays over both of you, a shared chuckle breaks the tension. “Do you want me to wash you?” he asks, his voice low and thick with need. You nod, craving the touch of his hands on your body.

Yoongi finds some minty soap, lathering it in his hands before placing them on your skin. Instantly, you relax, feeling like putty in his strong hands. His touch is soft yet firm as he moves from your neck down your back, to your ass, and then along your thighs and legs. His hands travel back up to your neck, then, standing behind you, they move to your front. He slowly caresses your breasts, teasing your nipples into stiff peaks, and continues down your stomach, past your crotch, and along the front of your legs. The intimacy and the warmth of his touch make you feel more alive than you have in a long time.

Shivers cascade down your spine, heat flaring not from the water, but from Yoongi’s touch. Your breathing quickens with each passing moment, his low and raspy grunts filling your ears.

Your knees grow weak, and a blissful moan of his name escapes your lips as your head falls back to rest against his collarbone. “Do you like it, babe?” he murmurs, his voice a deep, seductive rumble that sends electric tingles down your spine and a rush of arousal pooling between your legs.

Your body quivers, and you bite your lower lip in a futile attempt to contain your desire. Finally, you relent, panting, “Yes.”

His pet name for you sends your mind spinning with thoughts of him, intensifying your longing. You gather your courage and turn to face him, your eyes hooded with desire. He licks his lips teasingly, his gaze sweeping over your soapy, naked form with clear appreciation. His hands continue their journey, gliding over your skin, teasing and igniting every nerve.

“I want to wash you too,” you pant with a chuckle, grabbing the soap and lathering it in your hands. You place your fingers on his warm, sturdy chest, gliding over his pectorals and teasing his nipples, drawing a soft, whiny chuckle from him. Your hands travel down his stomach, deliberately bypassing his half erect cock, moving instead to his legs and down to his feet. Then, you make your way back up, sliding your hands over his back, down his shoulder blades, to his firm, round bum, which you squeeze with playful delight, before caressing down his thighs.

You’re now sitting, face to face with his erection, and you can’t help but stare. To you, cocks have always just been cocks, but his looks almost like a work of art. It grows longer with arousal, and you stutter at the thought that he isn’t even fully hard yet. He already looks so long and girthy, and you can’t wait to feel him inside you.

You glance up at him, his eyes dark as obsidian, his mouth slightly agape as he watches you. Your hands move to his dick, now free of soap. He releases a needy groan as you wrap your fingers around him, beginning to stroke gently.

He keens at your touch, his back pressing against the shower wall, panting as the warm water sprays over you both. The only sounds are his grunts and the rhythmic patter of water, so you keep going, pleasuring him with your hand, feeling the intoxicating power of his reaction to you.

“Fucking hell, seeing you like that on your knees… you’re making me weak,” he pants, his black hair plastered to his head, his face flushed with a deep blush.

You smile, relishing the effect you have on him, and it spurs you to stroke him faster. In a surprising move, you wrap your mouth around his cock. He grunts in pleasure, relishing the sensation of your warm, wet mouth enveloping him.

You breathe through your nose, setting a slow, deliberate pace. His hands find purchase in your wet hair, fingers gripping as his body trembles with each movement of your lips and tongue.

He pants and grunts your name, the sound echoing in the steamy shower, until he gently pulls you off. “It’s really good. But I don’t want to come yet.” His voice is ragged, filled with both desire and restraint.

You rise to your feet with a smile, capturing his lips in a deep, fervent kiss, moaning softly into his mouth. Your hands snake around his frame, pressing your body tightly against his. His cock presses against you, igniting a wildfire of need within you. Pulling back, you gaze into his eyes, the intensity of your desire mirrored in his dark, lust-filled gaze.

“Let me finish washing you up, and then we can continue this in bed,” he suggests with a teasing smile. You nod, shivering as his hands glide over your body, washing away the soap with gentle, deliberate touches.

Just as you’re about to step out of the shower, he grabs your hand, stopping you in your tracks. “I haven’t washed your hair yet,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate.

Your stomach does a somersault, a horde of butterflies threatening to escape. No one has ever done this for you. No one. He steals your breath away with how soft and caring he is, while he still maintains his roughness.

You walk back to him, and he’s already ready with shampoo in his hand, lathering the liquid on your scalp. You moan in delight at its minty scent filling your nose, feeling and loving the drag of his fingers on your scalp, giving you a thorough clean. Then he washes the soap away and does the same with the conditioner focusing on the ends of your hair. When he’s done, you turn around, wrap your arms around his neck, and kiss him.

It’s wild to think that at first you were put off by his strong behavior—though he did point a rifle at your head, and killed a man in front of you—but this, this is truly something special you could never have imagined. Never had you thought you’d fall for this rugged, rough, but also very sweet and soft man.

You don’t say anything, but gesture for him to let you wash his hair too. You find the shampoo and gently give him a scalp massage, pulling moans of your name from his lips. You squirt a bit of conditioner into your hands and lather the ends of his hair. He closes his eyes while you work, and, damn, he looks so handsome, so serene like this.

You give him a chaste kiss. “I’m done.”

He chuckles, and you each do a final rinse, making sure no soapy residue is left. Then you both step out of the shower and grab towels to dry off. Playfulness bubbles between you, even though you’re both aroused, the tension almost tangible in the steamy bathroom.

“Do you have a condom? I’m not on the pill anymore, and I didn’t make it to my appointment to get an IUD inserted,” you ask, already debating whether you want to risk it. With no birth control, you run the risk of getting pregnant, and you don’t really want that, but you also really want to fuck him.

“I have condoms,” he says, opening a cabinet and pulling out a large box.

“Holy shit, 500 condoms! What are you going to do with those?” you ask, flabbergasted and laughing at the absurdity. You’ve never seen a man with so many condoms. You wonder if he has a lot of sex or what his deal is. Did he plan this?

“Before you ask, because I can already see those wheels inside your brain spinning, it was a good deal, and it was a long time ago, but they’re not expired yet,” he chuckles, the sound low and deep, shrugging slightly as he scratches his still wet hair.

You laugh, taking the box from his hands and walking naked into his bedroom. The absurdity of the situation doesn’t dampen your desire; if anything, it heightens it, making the moment feel even more surreal and intense. The world outside might be falling apart, but in this room, you both find a strange and intoxicating solace.

“Do you fuck a lot of women, Yoongi?” you ask teasingly, holding the box in your grasp.

“I haven’t had sex in over a year, so no,” he chuckles, though his tone darkens slightly.

“So what are you going to do with all these then?” you ask, grabbing a foil packet and watching as a few more tumble out.

“Hopefully fuck you many times,” he teases with a grunt, standing before you at the edge of the bed. “Would you like that? Fuck like rabbits until the world falls apart?”

Your heart races at his words, the raw intensity of his desire matching your own.

For a moment, you had completely forgotten the state of the world, but with him, it hardly matters. “Fuck yeah. Take me on the bed, then fuck me in the shower, the kitchen, the couch, the floor—I don’t care, just get inside me,” you rasp, sitting down on the bed.

He pushes you down, and you giggle as he hovers over you. You shimmy further up the bed, and now he’s eye level with your exposed pussy. He licks his lips teasingly, his gaze dark and hungry. “Can I taste you?” he asks, his voice a sultry whisper.

You giggle, spreading your legs wider to make space for him. “Yes, please,” you breathe, your voice catching. You don’t care how needy you sound; the anticipation electrifies your skin, your body already trembling with desire.

One of his hands grips your thigh, and you let out an airy moan as he squeezes, drawing closer. “You look so pretty,” he murmurs, his voice a sultry promise. “Can’t wait to taste you.”

The world outside fades away, replaced by the intensity of his gaze and the heat of his breath on your skin. As he leans in, your senses ignite, every nerve ending alight with a mixture of need and surrender.

He takes a moment to savor your pulsating pussy, still damp from the shower, small water droplets glistening on your skin. With both hands, he gently parts your folds, groaning at the sight of your exposed hole. With eager anticipation, he dives down, his lips latching directly onto your sensitive clit, making you grab the sheets in pure ecstasy. His tongue traces a path to oblivion, and for that moment, you’re consumed by him, and him alone.

His tongue is a perfect blend of warmth, softness, and roughness, unforgiving in the way it laps and sucks at your clit, sure to bring you maximum pleasure in a short amount of time. It’s insane how skilled he is with his mouth, and you arch into his expert touch, your fingers tangling in his long black locks instead of the sheets. The world outside is forgotten, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of his tongue and the undeniable connection between you.

“Yoongi... it’s so good,” you moan, feeling your pussy clench around nothing. “Fingers, please.”

You can feel him smirk against your folds, his mouth never leaving your clit as a finger teases your entrance. Slowly, he slides the first digit inside you, and you let out a needy moan, relishing the small stretch as he works you open.

“Like this?” he asks, momentarily pulling away to flash you a teasing grin, fully aware of the power he holds over you and how much he’s affecting you with his skilled tongue and probing finger. The anticipation and his relentless teasing send waves of pleasure coursing through you, leaving you breathless and craving more.

You bite your lip and nod, your body trembling as he begins to finger you with increasing vigor. It doesn’t take long before he adds a second finger, the slight stretch sending jolts of pleasure through your core. Your fingers clench in his hair, your legs closing around his head as you edge closer to your orgasm.

“I’m gonna come,” you pant, tugging at his hair, the desperation in your voice driving him to suck harder on your clit and thrust his fingers faster. The intense rhythm of his movements sends you spiraling, each stroke and flick of his tongue bringing you closer to the edge.

Sucking noises fill the room, amplifying your sense of being utterly consumed by bliss. Your heart races, each beat echoing in your ears as you gasp and moan his name, the sound raw and desperate. The coil inside you finally snaps, and you clench around his fingers, your release surging through you like a tidal wave.

“Yoongi…,” you moan, your body vibrating with intense pleasure, tingles cascading over your skin. Your clit throbs with oversensitivity under the relentless ministrations of his tongue. He pulls away, smirking at you with lips glistening with your essence, the early morning sun filtering through the curtains and catching on the wet sheen.

In your bliss, you barely register that it’s the first time you’ve seen sunlight in weeks. The world outside may be changing, but in this moment, nothing else matters but Yoongi and the ecstasy he’s brought you.

"You taste so good. Are you ready for my cock, babe?" he smirks, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, savoring your essence.

“Yes, please, fuck me now. I want you and your dick,” you pant, your voice laced with need. You’ve been waiting for this moment for days, finally free from your period. Not that it would have stopped you, but you’ve stained the poor guy’s sheets enough already.

Yoongi moves closer, tearing open the foil packet and pulling out a condom. He puts it on with practiced ease, then pushes your legs further apart, kneeling in front of you. He spits on his cock, teasing it with his hand, and the sight sends a shiver down your spine. He’s finally going to enter you, filling you completely, and the anticipation is almost unbearable.

“Ready?” he asks, his voice low and filled with desire. You nod eagerly, your body trembling with anticipation.

“You’re so beautiful, do you know that?” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. One of his hands squeezes your thigh, and you feel the head of his cock teasing your waiting entrance.

No one has ever called you beautiful before, and you’re momentarily speechless. Instead, you give him a shy smile, your face heating with a blush.

Slowly, he begins to enter you, and you moan at the delicious stretch as he pushes in deeper. Yoongi grunts, “Shit. You’re so tight!” The comment makes you chuckle, inadvertently tightening your walls around him.

“Fuck. Don’t do that yet. I’m seriously gonna come any minute if you clench like that.” You stop laughing, trying to steady yourself, focusing on relaxing your inner muscles to give him space.

Finally, he bottoms out, fully sheathed inside you. “Damn. You’re really squeezing my dick. I’d forgotten what this feels like,” he gasps, his voice filled with pleasure and awe.

“Hopefully it’s good?” you ask breathlessly, your arms reaching to hold your thighs and press them down to your stomach, giving him even deeper access.

“Fuck, yeah. It’s amazing. You’re amazing,” he groans, smiling as he begins to pull out only to thrust back inside you, eliciting a moan of pure pleasure from your lips.

“You too, Yoongi, you’re amazing,” you murmur, biting your lip, reveling in the sensation of his thrusts, his balls slapping against your pussy with each powerful movement.

He leans down, your legs falling to the side, and captures your lips in a heated kiss while continuing to thrust into you. Your tongues dance together, and you taste yourself on his lips. He groans into your mouth, the sound driving your lust higher, and you teasingly bite his lip.

He kisses you again, then pulls away to trail kisses down your throat, over your collarbones. The intimacy of the moment strikes you, making you realize how deeply connected you feel with him. You’re consumed by this, by whatever it is that you and Yoongi have right now, and it feels overwhelmingly perfect.

His lips trace a path down to your breasts, latching onto a nipple and teasing it stiff with expert flicks of his tongue. He sucks hard while his other hand finds your other nipple, rolling and tugging it between his fingers. You writhe beneath him, moaning uncontrollably as waves of pleasure surge through you. Your hands lie flat beside you, completely surrendered to his touch.

“Fuck—Yoongi! Do you… do you want me to ride you?” you gasp, your voice choked with pleasure.

“You want to?” he asks, his mouth leaving your breast to meet your gaze, eyes dark with desire.

“Yes, otherwise I wouldn’t ask,” you chuckle breathlessly, pushing him away gently. He gives you his hand, helping you up from the bed. He lies down, his cock hard and glistening with your juices, ready for you. You crawl over to him and straddle him with vigor, your stomach burning with lust. Grabbing his cock, you guide it to your entrance and then slowly sink down, letting him fill you completely.

“Ah, fuck. It’s so good!” you moan, your body shuddering with pleasure as you begin to ride him, each movement bringing you closer to ecstasy.

When you look down, his eyes shine with awe and raw arousal, his hands gripping your hips as you begin to set a steady pace.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” he rasps, your name escaping his lips in a passionate grunt.

“I always look good,” you chuckle, feeling bold and safe in his arms, reveling in the rare self-praise.

“Shit. Confidence looks sexy on you,” he moans, his hands sliding from your hips up to your breasts, fondling them with a firm, appreciative touch.

You smile back, your thighs working overtime to bounce on him, hands braced against his chest. You lean down to kiss him, pulling away just enough to whisper, “Yoongi, I’m close again. Are you close too?”

He grunts, his cock twitching inside you, a clear sign of his impending release. “Yeah, I’m close. I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long.”

“Will you please touch my clit?” you ask, your eyes hooded with lust. His fingers land on your clit, working circles, sending electric pulses through your still-sensitive nerves.

“Shit,” you moan, followed by his name, as your body clenches and you release fluid around his cock, stopping your movements and panting for air.

“You did so good. Let me take over now, ‘kay?” he asks, biting his lip. You nod, feeling blissfully tired. His hands travel back to your hips, gripping you firmly as he begins to thrust up into you. His pace is fast and hard, hitting your already sensitive g-spot, making you cry out in both pain and pleasure, your walls fluttering around him.

“Fuck,” is all he says as he comes into the condom, filling it with his warm release. You scream his name and shake, slumping down onto his chest.

“Are you okay?” he asks, gently nudging your cheek, feeling the tears there and brushing them away.

Out of breath, you manage to say, “Yeah. I think I came again.”

He chuckles, stroking your hair as he hugs you close. You linger in the moment, savoring the intimacy—him still inside you, albeit softening. It’s blissful. The safety he provides, his minty scent, the warmth of his embrace. You feel cherished and secure in his arms, wishing you could stay like this forever.

“Damn. I feel so tired now, but at least I don’t have a headache anymore,” you chuckle, your head resting on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart gradually syncing with yours.

“Me too,” he laughs, the sound resonating through his chest, filling you with warmth.

“Maybe we should just stay like this until you get hard again, and we can go for another round,” you suggest, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his warm skin.

“You’d like that, huh?” he teases, his hands threading through your hair.

“Yeah,” you affirm, feeling overwhelmed by his presence yet craving more of it.

Safe to say, you remain nestled together, igniting another round and many more throughout the day. You’re amazed at Yoongi’s stamina, though he did mention something about his balls aching, so as night falls, you settle into a comfortable embrace in bed.

In the days that follow, you fuck on every imaginable surface, putting those 500 condoms to good use.

One day, the sun that had graced your windows for weeks disappears, replaced by an eerie gray sky again. The familiar sound of something flying in the air makes you shiver and crouch down in fear.

“What’s wrong?” Yoongi asks, his face etched with concern. The fear in your eyes tells him something’s terribly wrong.

“Bombs,” you mutter. As the words leave your lips, the first explosion shatters the ground nearby. You scream, terror coursing through you. Not this again. You thought you’d grown used to it, the bombings having become sporadic and distant. But now, they’re hitting too close to home.

Yoongi rushes to the window and peers outside, his expression tense. “It’s close. We can’t stay here. We need to leave,” he says, urgency lacing his voice.

Your eyes widen in fear and panic. “What do you mean? Leave?”

“Yeah. It’s not safe to stay here anymore. We can take the truck, try and stay alive. It’s better than staying here and dying,” he says, already moving about, pulling out pre-packed bags.

“You have ‘to go’ bags ready?” you ask, staring at him in disbelief.

“Yeah. I didn’t think I’d have time to pack anything in a rush,” he explains, four bags already laying at your feet. “There’s food, water, clothes, and a medical kit,” he says, then walks up to you, looking you in the eyes. “It’s going to be alright, okay? You’re safe with me.”

You gulp and nod, the sound of another explosion reverberates through the walls, shaking the ground beneath you, fear propelling you into action. Grabbing two of the bags, you follow Yoongi outside to the truck.

The world outside looks bleak. Thick clouds of smoke and ash cover the horizon, turning everything gray. Trees are falling, and in the distance, buildings blaze with fire. The scene mirrors the devastation of your hometown—bombed, ruined, and left you with nowhere to go. Now, you wonder, where will you go?

Your ears ring, and your head spins. Your breaths come quick and shallow as the acrid smell of fire, death, and destruction fills the air. You’re tired of it, longing for the world you once knew. But that world is gone, replaced by this new reality of chaos.

You follow him to the truck, glancing at Yoongi. Despite everything, you find solace in his presence. This new life may be filled with death and destruction, but with Yoongi by your side, you know you have a fighting chance.

“Hurry. We need to grab more supplies from the shed,” Yoongi urges, pulling you along after you’ve tossed the bags into the truck.

Inside the shed, Yoongi opens a large box, revealing an arsenal of firearms stashed from top to bottom. Your mouth falls open in disbelief. “You have more than just one rifle?”

He chuckles, the sound tense against the backdrop of imminent danger. His movements are swift and precise. “Yeah. Like you guessed, I was prepared for this.”

You gulp, the gravity of the situation sinking in. You’ve never met anyone like Yoongi—someone so prepared for the worst, for the end of the world. Someone ready to fight for his life, and now, for yours too.

He hands you something, and when you look down, you realize it’s a knife, sheathed in worn leather. “Why are you giving me this?”

“To defend yourself. You said you could handle yourself, so use this,” he replies, his shoulders shrugging as he stuffs a variety of guns into a backpack, slinging his rifle over his shoulder as if it’s just another day in the office.

“Yeah— with my bare hands. I’ve never used a knife before, let alone a gun,” you stammer, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. The world has become so twisted that now you need to carry a weapon just to stay alive.

“I don’t care. I’ll do my best to protect you, but if something happens, you need to be able to protect yourself,” he says, his voice firm but his eyes soft. He hands you a leather harness, and you look at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“Put this on, so you can holster a gun and the knife,” he says, motioning for you to turn around as he helps you secure the leather harness.

“You make it sound like it’s zombies out there,” you gulp, the gravity of the situation hitting you hard. Everything is escalating again, and you know you need to leave—fast.

“Babe, it might as well be zombies. It’s either them or us.”

You freeze for a moment—those words, ‘them or us’ send a chill down your spine. Even though it makes you feel sick, you know he’s right. If you want to survive, you might have to make some very uncomfortable decisions. You clench your hands, fastening the leather harness around your shoulder, then holster the knife and the small gun Yoongi has given you. You pray you never have to use it, but if it comes down to it, you know it will always be you and Yoongi before anyone else.

Yoongi hurriedly grabs more supplies from the box, stuffing them into his backpack and securing them to the belt he now wears. You notice an additional knife, a smaller multi-tool, flashlights, batteries, and finally, he hauls canisters of fuel into the truck’s bed.

“Come on, let’s get going,” he urges, darting around the vehicle. You yank open the passenger door, heart pounding, and jump in. Yoongi climbs in, turns the key in the ignition, and the truck roars to life.

As Yoongi reverses out of the driveway, a low-flying plane thunders overhead. You glance out the window just in time to see a bomb drop. The next moment, your ears ring painfully as your home for the past months disintegrates in a fiery explosion. Plywood, drywall, banisters, and concrete fly through the air, and you scream, tears streaming down your face.

Yoongi remains unfazed, his focus unbroken as he speeds down the main road, leaving the obliterated remains of the house behind.

From the window, you watch in horror as the house disintegrates, consumed by smoldering flames. The structure collapses, reduced to rubble in seconds. Gulping, you feel your body tense and your mind race, barely processing the close call.

“Try to take deep breaths,” Yoongi advises, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts. You hadn’t even noticed you were on the verge of hyperventilating. Placing a trembling hand on your chest, you focus on its rise and fall—proof that you’re still alive. Everything will be fine once you escape this nightmare, you tell yourself. Everything will be fine. But no amount of positive thinking can mask the grim and harsh reality. Tears blur your vision as you cry, the enormity of your new world crashing down around you.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Yoongi says, his hand landing on yours, grounding you. It always does. You’ve only known Yoongi for a few months—maybe half a year—but time has become a strange, elastic concept since the bombings started. Despite the short duration, you’ve grown dependent on him, on the safety he provides. The thought of losing him, like you lost your friends, terrifies you.

“I just hope we make it out,” you choke out between sobs, your fists clenching and unclenching. You know you need to calm down; fear won’t help you now. But the prickling sensation of dread crawling under your skin feels all too real, a constant reminder of the uncertain future and the precariousness of your life.

His grip tightens, offering a small but significant comfort. “We will,” he assures you, his voice steady despite the chaos. “I promise.”

The landscape outside the truck is almost unrecognizable. The once lush green trees and bushes are now gone, replaced by gray ashes and fire. Everything is barren, dying.

Bombs continue to drop around you, each explosion sending a shiver down your spine. A lump forms in your throat, but you’re thankful for the truck’s metal shell that muffles the sounds of chaos. You don’t have to hear the people dying, unlike back in the city where the screams still haunt your nightmares.

The road is bumpy, marred by craters and debris, a cruel reminder of the unrelenting reality of your new life. Each jolt and rattle of the truck underscores the harshness of this world, a stark contrast to the life you once knew.

“If anybody comes up to us, shoot first and ask questions later. Got it?” Yoongi’s voice is stern, his grip on the steering wheel like a vice. You gulp and turn your head towards him. “What?” you ask in disbelief. You don’t want to shoot anyone. Your hand finds the gun holstered in your harness. You really don’t want to.

“You don’t know what people want. They might want to kill you. Just shoot them in the leg so they can’t walk,” he explains, his focus sharp on navigating the wreckage of the desolate road. The once-bustling streets are eerily empty, a haunting silence hanging in the air.

You think about his words for a moment, trying to rationalize. Shooting someone in the leg isn’t as bad as killing them, right? It’s a compromise you can live with, or so you hope.

“I really hate this,” you groan, your tears subsiding. Your heart still races, but you force yourself to focus on Yoongi, his voice, and the urgency of getting the hell out of this town. The reality of your situation presses down on you, heavy and suffocating, but you know you have to keep moving forward.

“Where are we going?” you ask, changing the subject. You don’t want to think about killing someone, or shooting them. Better think about something else.

“One of my friends’ places, maybe we can stay there,” Yoongi says, his voice thick with emotion. You can tell he’s worried about his friend—wondering if they’re okay or not.

“Jungkook. Remember I told you about him?” he asks, a fleeting smile crossing his lips. It’s a melancholy smile, tinged with fear and uncertainty.

You nod, gripping the door handle as the terrain grows rougher. The world outside the window is unrecognizable, a desolate wasteland of gray ash and smoldering fires. The once lush and vibrant landscape is now barren, dying, the remnants of civilization crumbling away.

Time blurs as you drive, the hours indistinguishable from one another. Eventually, you spot the outlines of houses on the horizon, but they are no longer standing. They’re crumbled and reduced to rubble, much like Yoongi’s home. The sight tightens your throat with dread, an eerie premonition of what might await you at Jungkook’s place. Your heart breaks for Yoongi, for the fragile hope he clings to in this devastated world.

Yoongi stops the car in front of the destroyed house and jumps out of the truck. His face is unreadable, but you catch glimpses of sadness and anger as he clenches his fists and frowns, taking in the wreckage.

You get out too and join him, your throat and heart tightening at the sight. You scan the ruins for any sign of his friend but find no one. You’re unsure if that’s a good thing or not. “Maybe he made it out?” you suggest, your voice meek and filled with sadness as memories of losing your own friends flood back, and tears well up in your eyes.

“Maybe,” Yoongi responds blankly. You reach out and grab his hand, lacing your fingers with his, offering the support and comfort he’s given you so many times before.

“It’s going to be okay,” you reassure him, slowly beginning to believe your own words. With Yoongi by your side, you feel like you might actually have a fighting chance in this godforsaken world.

“Thank you,” he whispers, leaning into you. The ashy air caresses your cheek as you both turn back to the truck.

You get in and drive off, the road ahead uncertain, but the bond between you stronger than ever. You’re in search of a place to stay, a place to escape this relentless dystopia, and for the first time, you feel a glimmer of hope.

It feels like you’ve been driving forever, the sky a perpetual twilight, offering no clue to the hour. You push through, finally finding a piece of nature that remains green, untouched by the devastation. Yoongi stops the car and begins unloading the bags, including some you hadn’t noticed before.

“You’ve got a tent too?” you ask in disbelief. By now, you shouldn’t be surprised by his preparedness, but each new revelation still catches you off guard.

“Yeah. We can also sleep in the truck though,” he replies, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger.

“The tent is fine. But do you think we can keep warm?” you wonder aloud, unsure of how cold the night might get. You can’t even recall what month it is—April, May? The days and weeks blur together in this endless struggle.

“Yeah, we’ll just huddle together,” he assures you. His confidence is comforting, and you believe him. He sets up the tent with practiced ease, pulling out a thin mattress. After a small meal, exhaustion overtakes both of you, and you head into the tent. Yoongi wraps his arms around you, his body warmth making you feel safe and secure.

Despite your weariness, you struggle to fall asleep, feeling restless. Sensing this, Yoongi soothes you with his hands, leading to you making love, feeling the spark between you, so vital in this broken world, helps you finally drift off to sleep, your bodies intertwined, finding solace and unity in each other amidst the chaos.

In the morning, you think, the air is thick with smoke, small rays of sunlight filtering through the dense clouds above. You stretch and yawn, watching as Yoongi builds a fire, the two of you eating a small meal to regain some energy. The warmth of the fire and his presence beside you offer a fleeting comfort in the bleakness of the world. As you kiss, savoring each other’s company, the air feels warmer than you expected, a small reprieve in the otherwise harsh landscape.

As you sit there, a sense of unease washes over you. The hairs on your arms stand on end, and you lift your head from Yoongi’s shoulder, scanning the area for any signs of danger. The rustling in the nearby bushes makes your heart race, but you see nothing.

“What’s wrong?” Yoongi asks, pulling you tighter against him.

“I just feel like we’re being watched…,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if afraid the very air might betray you.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have made the fire,” he replies, his voice tense. “It gives away our position.” He drags his feet through the dirt, smothering the fire with soil and stones.

“Just to be safe, I think we should move,” he suggests, standing up and pulling you with him. His grip on your hand is firm, reassuring.

You nod, the weight of the situation sinking in. Better to be cautious than caught off guard. The world around you is hostile, every shadow a potential threat. Together, you gather your things and move on, seeking safety in an uncertain future.

Then you get back on the road. You’ve traveled so far out that you have no idea where you are, but you hope you’ve left behind whatever presence you felt before. You turn to Yoongi, smiling at him, feeling a glimmer of safety and happiness despite the bleakness of your life. He’s your light, keeping you hopeful in this desolate world.

Suddenly, a harsh sound pierces the air, followed by a deafening explosion. The earth shatters next to the truck, sending it spiraling into the air. You scream, clutching onto anything you can, as the vehicle flips and lands on its roof. Your seatbelt catches you, holding you in place as the world turns upside down. The ringing in your ears is unbearable, distorting your voice as you try to speak. “Yoongi—are you okay?” you manage to choke out.

He grunts, “I’m okay. What about you?”

“I’m fine,” you pant, feeling the blood rush to your head. The urgency to escape floods your senses.

Yoongi frees himself from his seatbelt and falls to the ground with a thud, groaning in pain. Despite the agony, he pushes through, helping you free yourself and dragging you out of the wreckage. Both of you are alive, miraculously. The injuries seem minimal—Yoongi’s knuckles are bleeding, but that’s about it. You look around at the desolate landscape, the truck lying on its roof, shattered glass everywhere, and you realize just how close you came to losing everything. But as long as you’re together, you have a fighting chance in this godforsaken world.

“Fucking hell, my head is spinning,” Yoongi grunts, wincing in pain.

You suggest grabbing the bags from the wrecked truck, finding some painkillers for both of you, and treating his bruises. He nods, his eyes scanning the desolate surroundings. “We should ditch the truck and move on by foot,” he says, standing up and looking toward a large hill on the horizon. “Maybe we can make it up there?”

“Good idea,” you agree. You grab the bags, your weapons, and, hand in hand, you begin navigating the rough terrain. The landscape is a mix of green patches and dying vegetation, the minimal sunlight choking out what little life remains. Without photosynthesis, you wonder how anything will survive.

You walk until exhaustion sets in, reminding you of the long trek you made before meeting Yoongi. Weary, you decide to make camp, forgoing a fire pit this time. Setting up the tent, you collapse into sleep, the days and nights blending together under the perpetual gray sky.

One morning, after what feels like endless walking, you attempt to scale the hill. It looms vast and imposing, perhaps more of a mountain than a hill. As you drag your tired bodies up the elevated trail, Yoongi breaks the silence. “Do you also feel like we’re being followed?”

You nod, a shiver running down your spine. You’ve felt the presence since yesterday, a constant shadow lurking at the edges of your perception. But what can you do until it reveals itself?

“Keep your hand close to your gun and knife, okay?” Yoongi instructs, his voice tense. He remains on guard, eyes darting around as you continue your climb. You don’t have the energy to chase shadows, especially when survival depends on reaching the top of this mountain hill. The weight of the unknown presses down on you, every step a reminder of the perilous world you now inhabit.

The air grows thinner and colder as you ascend, prompting you to make camp again. You eat and attempt to sleep, though you’re always alert, wary of whatever or whoever is following you. Despite the tension, you manage a light sleep.

In the morning, you stretch your body and gently kiss Yoongi awake, then strap on your leather harness and weapons. As you step out of the tent to grab something to eat, your blood runs cold. A man is rummaging through your supplies, his eyes wild with hunger. He turns, and your gaze locks with his.

Panic grips you.

Yoongi emerges from the tent, instantly assessing the situation. His hand flies to the gun in his jeans pocket, drawing it with practiced speed as he steps beside you. The man looks between you and Yoongi, unafraid. He’s a mess, dirtied by war and bombs, eyes red and feral. For a fleeting second, you wonder if he’s even human.

“Touch her and die,” Yoongi warns, his voice cold and venomous.

The man charges at you, and for a moment, you freeze, memories of a similar encounter at Yoongi’s house flooding your mind. But this time, your instincts kick in. Your hand finds the gun, you draw it, and aim at the stranger’s leg. Heart pounding, you clench your teeth, close your eyes, and pull the trigger.

A scream rips through the air.

Yoongi is at your side in an instant, taking the gun from your trembling hands. The stranger falls to the ground, clutching his thigh as blood oozes from the wound. You pant furiously—you did that. You hurt someone. The realization makes you feel sick.

“You just defended yourself. It’s okay,” Yoongi reassures, patting soothing circles on your back.

You nod, trying to believe him. You didn’t kill the stranger; you defended yourself. It’s a grim comfort in this bleak reality, but it’s something.

“What should we do about him?” you ask, still panting, your body tingling with the aftershocks of adrenaline.

“Just leave him,” Yoongi replies with a shrug, quickly gathering your things and dismantling the camp. The stranger’s screams of pain echo through the air, but Yoongi shows no mercy, just cold pragmatism. You’re grateful he doesn’t kill the man outright, though you know he will likely die anyway.

You move on, leaving the wounded stranger behind to fend for himself. Deciding against climbing all the way up the mountain to avoid the bitter cold, you continue your journey. Time becomes a blur of setting up and breaking camp, bombs still scattering the ground around you, but you keep pushing forward, driven by the hope of escaping this nightmare.

Eventually, you find a small hill overlooking the sea. The view is hauntingly beautiful—a stark contrast to the desolation around you. “Do you think we could swim to safety?” you ask, staring at the sparkling blue water, a surreal contrast to the barren landscape.

Yoongi chuckles darkly. “I think we’d die of exhaustion and drown before making it to another country or island.”

“We’re probably gonna die of radiation anyway now,” you spit, setting your bags down on the ashy ground. The sea, still blue and inviting, feels like a cruel joke.

“Yeah, we might feel some radiation effects in a few years, if we’re alive by then,” Yoongi says, putting his bags down too.

You both sit in silence, the weight of your predicament settling in. The world as you knew it is gone, replaced by a harsh, unrelenting reality. But for now, you have each other, and that fragile connection gives you the strength to carry on.

For a moment, you just stare at each other, surrounded by a world that has fallen apart, crumbled into something unrecognizable, gray, and dead. But he’s alive, and so are you. You’ve made it this far, and it makes your heart pound. Your lips crash into his—hungry for his touch, for the feeling of being alive, for safety.

The kiss ignites into a frenzy of lustful touches as you strip, indifferent to the fact that you’re outside—there’s no one else around anyway. You kiss him deeply, touching him like it’s the last time. The world is ending, and your desperation fuels your desire. You grip his hard cock, your mouth finding him, sucking, kissing, pleasing until he stops you with a growl, saying he wants to be inside you. You want that too. Laying down on the ground, you welcome him into your warm walls like you’ve done many times before. He knows how to please you, his touches and kisses driving you wild.

You want this moment to last forever, but you’re acutely aware of the uncertainty of your future. You don’t know if you’ll be alive tomorrow, next week, or next month or even in a year. But you know Yoongi, and he grounds you.

With him, it’s okay if the world is ending—as long as you have him.

Bombs continue to fall in the distance, and tears escape your eyes, a bittersweet reminder of your probable fate. But at least you have Yoongi by your side. Your breaths mingle, your hands lace together, and he kisses your neck, making love to you like it’s the last time.

Time on this earth feels borrowed. You lose yourself in his touch, in his kisses, feeling breathless and alive despite the encroaching darkness.

→ Author’s note(2): hi! Since I posted the teaser I’ve been really stressed, lol. Because I felt so pressured by your expectations, so I really hope that this has turned out well 🥹 I love that so many people are interested in the story, so I just hope I did it justice! Please let me know? Again, this is based on my very real fears, but mingled with fiction. I tried my best to make an open ending, so you’re free to interpret it as you please (this is very intentional because of something I might explain later, lol). Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed it. I had my husband beta-ing it, and he fixed at lot of my poor gramma, got flustered by the smut and said it was too descriptive, and it said this wasn’t as detailed as I usually write smut 🤣 Anyway, he said he wanted more ‘survival’ with oc and Yoongi— and I completely agree. But I don’t have any more words, and I’m honestly afraid to make it too much into ‘The Last of Us’ or something else I watched (seeing as I’m not really familiar with writing apocalyptic stories, lol). But I hope it was still okay, at least 🥹

What did you think?? 💜

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#fic: end of the world #fic review #fic recommendation #bts fic recs #yoongi x reader #manipulatedstars <3 #tysm for the amazing review #truly means a lot #and it made my day!!!

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