#note to self look up the word drabble

[khaotunq]

Trick or treat 💖✨✨

For you, non, a missing scene. *

They had barely stopped touching since the tearful reunion in the jazz cafe Sand's dad played in. Ray had parted from him to walk around to the driver's side but had immediately taken his hand, pressed it onto his thigh like it was for safekeeping.

The last of the alcohol buzzed around in Sand, made him a little fuzzy, brought his pushed-down emotions dangerously near the surface. He'd been drinking to dull them but Ray's voice cracking around his name had dragged them up and suddenly he was engulfed.

Ray had come back to him. His uncanny knack for finding Sand wherever he went had won through and he'd come back. Sand knew that meant something, almost as much as the words he'd said. Nick had pointed it out, once, that Ray turning up in front of him was perhaps a coincidence the first couple of times, but after that it was a conscious decision. Nick had also called Ray a few uncharitable names for not seeing how brilliant Sand was, which Sand had laughed off but been genuinely touched by.

Sand had been subjected to approximately seventeen thousand Meaningful Looks from Nick when he'd gotten home after Ray crashed their camping trip.

That wasn't the point, though. The point was that they were in Ray's car in a strange, reversed echo of a drive they'd taken before. He reached to turn the radio on with the hand not curled into the rough denim of Ray's jeans. The point was that Ray had found him, had reached out and taken hold, and let himself be taken hold of in return.

The car ride was mostly filled with the radio, occasional sniffles and self-conscious little laughs.

They reached Sand's apartment, hands intertwined. Nick was working so Sand let them in and finally it was safe to let go. Ray ducked past him into the main room of the apartment while Sand locked the door and placed his boots beside Ray's.

Sand looked up properly just in time to collide with Ray's back.

He'd forgotten about the wine. Had managed to push it out of his mind that even though he hadn't let himself hope for Ray coming back, he couldn't stand to look at it anymore. There were still boxes of finished product but Nick had let him store them in his room while he got a grip.

"Sand?" It was the first either of them had actually spoken since the cafe.

"It was you or the booze, right?" Sand said with a clarity he didn't realise he felt until that moment. The fuzziness from the alcohol had dissipated, leaving him feeling drained and heavy but hyperaware of Ray before him. "Same choice you're making."

Ray spun in place to stare up at him, eyes glassy with emotion again. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, apparently unable to find the words. "But--"

"There are other jobs," Sand said, still surprised by how fully-formed the thought seemed to be. Didn't say, there's no other Ray.

Ray seemed to hear that anyway, because the kiss he pressed to Sand's mouth was bruising and kind of clumsy, tasted like both of their tears.

[luvwestwood]

"AFK" - Choso Kamo (with twt links)

"..like fortnite, i’ma need your skin.."

3,012 words.

warnings. nsfw(18+), bf/gamer! choso, oral sex (m rec.), humiliation, desk sex, exhibitionism, trying not to get caught, feral choso, p in v, throat fucking, oral sex (m receiving), overstimulation, degradation, choso whimper links included lol,

notes. my previous drabble abt choso had a lil kick to it, definitely had to make it into a full one-shot! hope u guys enjoy, and thank u for 450 followers hehe, so I included twt links! ^^

credits to @/plutism for dividers, @/adrienwithane for banner.

russian translation by @juliabelll ❤️

Not too long ago, it was Choso's birthday. Being an amazing girlfriend you are, of course you built him a brand new PC. It cost you an arm and a leg, but that didn't matter at all when it came to Choso. Seeing him happy itched a part of your brain, especially when he was the one who would pay for everything: dates, your online shopping carts, you name it.

He never really bought anything for himself. You were getting tired of the countless times that he went on a tangent about how slow his previous machine was. It was doing your head in, so you saved up. For what you now call a 'not-blessing-in-disguise'.

Choso was obsessed with his new PC, and it wasn’t an exaggeration. Part of you was starting to regret it all. The man barely paid attention to you.

Am I the asshole for being mad that my boyfriend likes his gift a bit too much? No, I wouldn't think so. I should be delighted, but it's pretty much getting outrageous.

The fact that he has almost every single game out there on that PC in just a span of one week since he got it - means there's more for him to do. Every day, he'd wake up, do a bit of house stuff then sit his ass down to play with his friends. For as long as he can. Never leaving that room. Hell, he wouldn't even bother answering your messages until an hour later. 'Mb, was on the game' is something that was engraved in your brain by now.

Every time you'd come over, he'd ignore you simply by just gluing his eyes on the screen. If you try to nap, just go home. You've lost track of how many times he's managed to wake you up with his blood-curdling screams. There were times when Choso didn't even notice you leaving, which upset you quite a bit.

Of course, you had moments when you needed him the most. Like, badly. Freshly shaved, he's not even mentally there to take a peek. You could be naked and oiled up in his bed, Choso wouldn't even bat an eye.

…Advice to self, don't get him a PS5 this Christmas.

"Choso," You called out, sat on the edge of the bed behind him. No answer. Per usual, you wanted to rip that headset off his head.

Dark circles were forming around his eyes, endless cans of monster were scattered all over his desk. "Nah let's just fight Oscar, we've got a minute until the circle closes."

Rolling your eyes, a scoff escapes your mouth. Aaand he didn't hear you. Crossing your arms, you furrow your brows. He was honestly testing your patience. "Choso?!"

Choso flinches a bit, pulling one side of his headset away from his ear. His gaming chair spins around to face you. "Baby?"

He knew you were mad. You looked more than pissed. It was really because this recurring behavior of his was getting too much. "Your eyes are always on that screen! Did you even know that I was here!?”

“I-I’m sorry. Look, I'll get off after this game!” From his headset you could hear Choso’s friends teasing and picking on him. They probably heard you scolding your poor boyfriend. You couldn’t care less.

As soon as you were about to speak, he immediately spun his chair back around to face that stupid monitor again. He was too engrossed in the game. It was his squad of four against the only opposing team.

Groaning, you flop back onto his mattress. "..You always say that, and you never do." Muttering under your breath, you stare at the ceiling blankly. What felt like a hammer to your head, Choso's war cries could only get louder each second.

The past few days, you had no choice but to use your own fingers to toy with yourself. You were needy, and you missed your boyfriend's touch. Too bad he was too occupied. How come his keyboard and mouse get to be touched by him more than your....

Using all of your strength, you sat yourself up again on the edge of his mattress. Realizing there's no use in scolding him, you quietly walked up behind Choso, combing your fingers through his hair. You loved when it was down, and he loved it when you played with his hair. He found it relaxing. You could tell by the way his body was no longer tensed up, the back of his head falling heavy onto your hand.

Your hands left his hair, travelling down to his nape. With your freshly manicured nails (which he paid for), you gently scratched his skin on his neck. You could see goosebumps forming, but said nothing about it. Choso who was ticklish, tilted his head to the side - "Mmm," He hummed, telling you off as you were starting to distract him.

Letting out a laboured sigh, you stared at the back of his head. Wondering what to do with him, you pouted. Maybe I should just leave like every other day? No, I can't back down.

He seems really busy. Would he even notice if I crawled under his desk? Grinning, you got on your knees, crawling like a kitty underneath his desk but making minimal noise. You glanced behind your shoulder to see his reaction, but his eyes were still gawking at the flashing screen in front of him.

Coming face to face with his sweats, you kneeled, just in level with his lap. Peeking your head out from the shadows under his desk, Choso had only noticed you then. His eyes widened, the sight of you looking up at him like a puppy had started to cloud up his thoughts.

Grabbing onto his wrist, he slowly let go of his mouse. Bringing his hand to your cheek, he took it in the palm of his hand, eventually giving in and using his thumb to softly caress your lips. "..I missed you, Choso.." You whispered, softly sucking on his thumb. "..I need you,"

His breath hitched, your words were doing something to him. What a fool he was for ignoring you all this time? Just then, a cacophony of voices screaming through his headset broke him out of his trance. Choso's warm hand left your face, causing you to frown. Your fun was cut short. Way too short.

You had enough, deciding it was time you finally got what you wanted. Snaking your two hands up the soft cotton of his sweats, they stopped right at his crotch. His eyes anxiously shot down to you underneath him, telling you off and pointing to his headset.

Placing a finger onto your lips, you told him to just be quiet. His eyes frantically flickered from you, then to his monitor. Slowly, you slid down his pants. Smiling at the way he rose himself up from his seat slightly, so it would be easier to take them off. Of course, he wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Taking his long, thick cock into your hands, you jerked it ever so slightly. Choso cleared his throat, keeping his mouth shut all of a sudden in case he accidentally makes unwanted noise. He was practically melting under your touch, into the chair. Gliding your tongue over his pink tip, he didn't dare look at you. Not long after, your warm mouth wrapped over him, Choso letting out a sigh of relief at the feeling.

You knew how to push his buttons, bringing yourself to fully deepthroat his cock for a few seconds. His lips purse shut, Choso slightly biting down onto his bottom lip. His fingers started to press on the wrong keys, unable to focus on the game.

Pulling away, a string of saliva connected your tongue and his aching tip. You brought your lips back onto his cock, bobbing your head and hollowing your cheeks as you used your two hands to jerk him off at the same time.

The man above was folding at the pornographic sight underneath him. Hearing Choso moan by accident, he quickly covered it up with a cough. “…Yeah, no, I’m good- Just don’t- feel well..”Friends concerned, Choso had come up with a convincing lie in just seconds. His hand reached down to rake through your hair until his fist was full of it. [link]

He lightly pushed your head up and down his length, your mouth making sloppy noises all over, buckets of spit dripping down your chin and his balls.

Ripping his headset off, Choso didn't care about the game anymore. Or his friends. He groaned as you fondled with his balls, giving them a suck afterwards. His light grey pants were turning a darker shade than before. His two hands clawed into your hair on both sides of your face, Choso started to fuck his cock into the back your throat.

Moaning, his eyes shut tightly as his head fell back onto the cushion of his chair. His balls tightening as he heard how you constantly gagged over his thick cock. "Fuck.. Just like that.."

His moans were a mixture of curses and long groans, tears started to well up in your eyes. Choso opened his eyes again, looking down at you as he drew your mouth away from his cock. He smiled, seeing your makeup all ruined, your face covered with spit and so did his lap.

Rolling his chair away from the desk, he grabbed you from underneath. Only to pull it back again, placing it in front of his PC. Guiding his hand on your back, he bent you over on the chair, making your two legs kneel on the soft cushion so you wouldn't tire out. [link]

Holding tightly onto your hair, your head fell back towards him. Choso had ripped the fabric of your leggings that was unfortunately covering your cunt. Grabbing his cock, he lined himself up with your hole, his hands shaking from how eager he was.

Easily sliding in from the slick that covered your hole, you grabbed onto the arm rest in front of you; Choso stretching you out completely. Wasting no time, he began to move his hips back and forth, fucking his hard cock into you.

His monitor started to gently shake from how hard his cock was bullying into you, skin slapping as his balls that were full of weeks load cum made contact with your clit.

"C-Choso.." You cried out, your hand reaching back to his pelvis. Staring at yourself getting fucked like a slut through the reflection of his PC monitor, your ass rippled with each and every one of his thrusts.

Maintaining his brutal pace, his fingers were no longer woven into your hair, reaching out to the headset on his desk. Confused, you kept your eyes open to watch Choso place them over your head. "W-What..?"

His hands gripped onto the flesh of your hips, Choso leaned into your ear. "Keep moaning you slut, let them hear you." All of a sudden he groaned, feeling you clench around him at what he just said. "You like that, don't you?"

Spinning you slightly to one side, his leg went up onto the chair with you, allowing him more leverage to fuck you deeper. "Eyes up at that camera too, show them how pretty you look taking my cock," Tears started to stream down the sides of your cheeks, your face had flushed red.

Choso's hands took a hold of your hair again, his tip kissing your cervix repeatedly. "I.." Speechless, you lost your ability to form a basic sentence. His fat cock left you braindead, at this point you were seeing nothing but stars.

"..Use your words baby," A creamy white ring started to form at his base as his cock pistoned in and out of you. Choso's hand kept stamping down on your back from time to time to make sure you kept that arch. "..Isn't this what you've been wanting all week?"

"Y-you're so deep.. I can't.." Your hand reached back to his abs, twisting the white fabric of his tank top until it was all wrinkly. He took a hold of your wrist, twisting your arm behind you. Choso slightly bent over, his warm body resting against your back.

He quietly groaned into your ear, chanting your name like a prayer. You were fucked out of your mind. "You feel so good.. like this pussy was made for me." The pace of his thrusts slowed down, but his hips still rut into you hard each time. His strokes hard and deep, you swear could feel him all up in your guts. Your jaw had dropped, your head falling back onto his shoulder.

Choso's hands reached under your loose shirt, letting your tits spill out of your bra. Gently twisting your nipple between his finger tips, fondling with your whole breast afterwards, he forgot how much he loved wrapping his mouth around those.

"Your cock.. It feels so good.." You babbled, Choso sneaking his fingers underneath to rub lazy circles on your clit. Your legs began to tremble, fortunately your throat managed to choke out a whine.

Also seeing him in the reflection of his monitor, strands of his hair started to stick to his face. Multiple beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. Choso didn't want to leave your pussy. Not even Thor could pull him out. He enjoyed using you like a cock whore.

You felt so dizzy, mind full of his cock. Choso let out multiple whimpers as he felt his orgasm nearing, his index finger hooking onto the side of your mouth. The very last few seconds, his cock bottomed into you, trying to chase your orgasm. The desk hitting against he wall non-stop, his headset that was on you started to fall off your head.

Leaving a trail of wet kisses down your back, his hand grabbed onto the plush flesh of your ass, continuously giving it a spank every now and then.

The wet, slapping noises of your skin continued to follow, until you felt his thrusts come to a sudden halt. His hot cum shooting inside of you rope after rope, just before he pulled out to let the rest out onto your ass. "..Fuck.. look at that."

Using his thumb to spread your hole wide open, his load spilt onto the black leather of his gaming chair. You panted, tired and hole throbbing. You got what you wanted, that’s for sure. Forcing his headset off you, you couldn't do anything but lean against his desk, trying to regulate your breathing pattern back to normal.

"..We're not done here," Choso laughed behind you, your cunt still dripping of his thick load. His hands roughly turned your body around, placing you on top the desk to face him. Using his foot to push the chair away, he lined his cock with your hole again, using his cum that was already inside of you as lube.

"Oh m-my- Choso!" You yelped, one hand taking grip onto his shoulder for support, the other holding knocking his keyboard out of the way, trying to find something to hold onto other than his shoulder.

His forehead rested against yours, the staggering movement of his hips causing the desk itself to shake under the two of you. Choso watched as his cock disappeared in and out of your hole, grunts coming out through his clench teeth as he wrapped his large hands around your thighs. He wanted more, and wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

"..Good girl," He gritted through his teeth, "..I love t-this pussy, and you." Choso's hands pressed flat against the desk, his lips locking onto yours. His cock was coated in a mixture of his and your own cum, your sweaty bodies intimately hugging against each other.

Choso wanted to feel all you, he just craved more and more each minute. His hands shakily held onto the sides of your waist, his lips moving to your jaw to plant more kisses.

"You're so beautiful, look at me baby." Choso lightly tapped the side of your face, telling you to maintain eye contact.

Obeying, you kept your eyes open; looking into his but not a thought behind your own eyes. You only continued to whine under his touch, overstimulated from how much he's used you like a cock whore. You were so close to losing your mind, drunk off his cock.

Choso too, was lost in your pussy. God, was he whipped— If only he could stay inside you forever, he definitely would. This whole time he was busy cursing at himself, how much of an idiot he is to not appreciate what he has - you. Your cheeks were stained with your hot tears, Choso hushing you and wiping them away every now and then.

“S-Shit, I’m gonna cum again.” He pants, feeling his balls tighten for the second time, the tightness of your pussy heightening his stimulation.

Your hands cupped both of his cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss. His thrusts turning sloppy, you cooed. “..Cum for me, I want it all inside..”

This caused the coil inside of Choso to snap, him desperately whimpering into your ear as he hid his face in the crook of your neck. “F-fu-ck..” Tightly holding onto the flesh of your hips, he made sure his second load stayed inside of you.

Sliding his cock out, Choso rested his heavy cock just above your pussy. Making sure he planted a peck on your forehead, trying to catch his breath. The two of you laugh, your bodies aching and sweaty, his entire desk and chair a mess.

Reaching for something, you blinked as Choso grabbed his headset that ended up on the other side of the desk. Placing one side against his ear, he spoke into the mic. "..GG."

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⤳ © luvwestwood ‘24 all works are owned by me, and originally come from my own head. please do not re-post on a third party platform without my permission!

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⤳ as always, thank you for the love on each and every one of my posts! it means the world to me 🎀🩷

[luvwestwood masterlist]

[haetero]

all mine.

PAIRING: aemond targaryen x afab!reader. WORDCOUNT: 1.9k

CW: jealous sex, mating press (hehe), unprotected sex, breeding kink!!, creampie, kind of angsty but its porn w a little bit of plot. use of high valyrian + a sprinkle of aegon bashing! mdni <3

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this was originally a 500 word drabble and then... i went a bit nuts.. if you enjoyed the fic, pls lmk! not proofread we die like literally everyone lol.

ABSTRACT:

aemond gets caught up with his royal duties and finds himself spending less time with his precious lady wife. determined to take matters in your hands, you make some silly choices involving another prince, which only makes things worse. till it gets better :)

this time, you think you deserved it.

what begun as a harmless jest to get aemond to pay attention to you quickly led to letting aegon drunkenly sweet talk you at supper. and yes, pretending to flirt with your husband’s brother in front of him might not have been the best decision, but you were just having fun right?

wrong.

you were perhaps the stupidest woman in all the seven kingdoms. really, there was no rationale for choosing to engage with aegon for more than ten minutes at a time and yet here you were, ‘giggling’ at his piss poor jokes and pretending to listen to his made up tales of something you couldn’t care to remember.

you could only chastise your past self for your poor decision making skills as aegon whispered into your ear, far too close to your liking. he stunk of the rich, dornish wine served earlier in the evening and his eyes lazily stared at the expanse of your chest. but regardless of whether he was drunk or not, aegon had enough wits about him to realise his brother was furious.

a sly grin on aegon’s face, he seemed to understand the predicament you were in and leaned in to plant a wet kiss on your cheek, before loudly announcing his exit with a parting “my lady”, to further enrage aemond.

internally groaning, you waited till aegon left before daring to take a peek at aemond. but he wasn’t even looking at you.

the complete lack of response terrified you. in fact, you’d almost convinced yourself he didn’t care at all, until you noticed his blanching knuckles gripping his silverware. “aemond, i-," you begun.

in an instant, aemond had gotten up out of his seat and finally looked at you with a look in his eyes that only meant one thing. he mumbled out a quick excusal for the pair of you, before extending his arm towards you with a pointed stare.

you were well and truly fucked.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

before you can realise what’s happened, aemond’s dragged you to your shared chambers at a pace you’re struggling to keep up with. quickly dismissing your maids, he shuts the doors firmly, before turning his back to you and shucking off his outer clothing. you dejectedly do the same, struggling out of your dress. you leave them in a heap on the floor, stripping down till you’re in your underthings.

the sounds of aemond changing have quietened down, spurring you to take a peek at him. he’s left in his pants; his broad shoulders and back on display for you to admire. maybe he'll listen to you if you explain yourself, you delude yourself. tiptoeing over to where he stands, you attempt a sheepish half smile, grabbing onto his bare arm to direct his attention to you.

“please, i’m sorry, i wasn’t thinking, i just missed you,” you start, attempting to make eye contact with aemond. he’s yet to talk to you, pointedly ignoring you. he simply stands there, jaw clenched, refusing to acknowledge you any further.

you feel stupid, really. doing all this to gain the attention of the man standing in front of you and even then, he doesn’t even spare you a glance. you wait for a few more seconds before deciding to save yourself the embarrassment. with a sigh, you turn back to your shared bed and sit yourself down.

you rush to unpin your hair, readying yourself for sleep. the dull throb of want in your stomach has you frowning but you know the only person who could satisfy you is aemond. in your distracted state, you don’t see that aemond’s turned back to face you.

“do you take me for a fool?” you freeze, not expecting that of all questions. you start to respond when he cuts you off with a glare. aemond huffs out a curse and walks over to stand in between your legs. a part of you think he looks majestic from this view, but you’re quick to silence your thoughts as he slightly lowers himself till he’s level with you.

“you missed me, so you thought it best to what? throw yourself at my brother?” the affronted look in your eyes tells aemond he’s wrong but he’s not feeling very charitable as you try to come up with right thing to say. “and you thought i’d just let him have you?”

“no! i swear, i was being childish aemond,” you try to reason with him. the longer you think about it, the faster you realise how childish you really were. but it doesn’t change your intentions. you were unsatisfied and tired. but you also hadn’t been this close to aemond without someone else being nearby in a while. the dull throbbing sensation in your cunt was starting to spread and you fought the urge to rip your underthings off and let aemond have his way with you.

“if you wanted something, all you had to do was tell me, not run off to aegon,” he muses, his right arm coming up to trace the veins in your neck. aemond can feel the way your breath stutters; he takes note of the way your lips quiver and fingers curl up slightly at his words. you not-so-subtly push your thighs together, trying to alleviate some of your lust by yourself.

a satisfied grin curls at his lips and aemond, finally, leans into the slope of your neck. you shiver at the feather-like sensation of his lips pressing into your skin, grabbing onto his arm to steady yourself before he pushes you onto your back. “aemond, i need only you,” you shyly mumble, before reaching up on your elbows to undo the clasp of his eye patch.

aemond lets you do as much before throwing it behind him, fixing you with a lust-filled gaze that has you whimpering within a second. he leans over you, and makes a show out of dragging the fabric of your underthings down till he’s rid of them, throwing them to the side. you’re shaking as you watch him eye your cunt with a starving look.

calloused hands grab at the fat of your thighs, kneading the soft skin there before pushing them to your chest. you mewl as cold air fans over your wet cunt, catching the way aemond eyes your hole greedily twitching around nothing. “this is what you wanted, right?”

“yes, yes, please,” you beg. if you weren’t so desperate already, you would have gagged at the sound of your whiny tone. but aemond seems to like your desperation. aemond undoes the string of his pants, before palming himself with a squeeze that has him sighing in relief. your mouth waters at the sight before you.

aemond gives himself a moment before he climbs over you, his frame gently pushing onto your knees in the position you’re in. your eyes flutter shut at the sensation of his warmth enveloping you.

“no, look at me, ābrazȳrys,” your silver haired lover grunts, as he goes to drag his cockhead over your slit. “i should get aegon to pleasure your whorish cunt instead.”

your immediate protests brings a smug grin to aemond’s face. of course, he would never let his brother anywhere near the ethereal sight beneath him, but seeing the tortured look on your face brings him a sick sense of pride. he plays with you like this for a moment, rubbing his cockhead over and over your clit till you’re nearly crying out in want.

after what feels like a lifetime, he decides to push into you. aemond intently watches the way his cock catches at the rim of your pussy before he slams into you. your resulting gasp has aemond’s chest tightening as he loses himself to the feeling of your walls clenching around him immediately.

letting out a strangled moan of your name, he sets a brutal pace from the get-go, ploughing forward until you’re clawing at his neck and shoulders for a reprieve. you’re a quivering mess under him, a mix of moans and cries escaping you. you can feel him everywhere.

a light flush rises on aemond’s cheeks and upper chest, a pink hue that matches the fine dresses you might wear to a banquet or a tourney. your teary eyes trace the faint red lines peaking up on his broad shoulders, evidence of your passion that has your core clenching tighter around him. aemond catches your stare, mouth agape in a euphoric state of mind and pushes your knees down even further, if it was possible.

his wife, his lover, his, his, only his.

"it's okay, sweetling," he vows, fat cock bullying your walls as he moulds himself into you. he bends down to leave a path of kisses trailing down your neck, assuming a steady yet punishing pace into your sopping core. "for me, remember? you can take it for me, right?" aemond groans, drunk on the way your pussy sucks him in, eyes squeezed shut in the pleasure you both share.

leaning back, aemond watches you grip the sheets tightly, he feels the way you soak his cock every time he rocks into your pussy. you've gone half mad, tongue lolling out as you chant his name as a mindless mantra. he drags your knees down to instead wrap around his hips, bringing you closer to plant wet kisses down your neck, nipping at the salty skin. you keen into his ear at the change of position, untangling your hands from the sheets to cling tightly to aemond.

"feel good, love?" he murmurs, trailing his arm down till it lights presses onto your stomach as he drives his cock back into you. "tonight's the night i'm filling you up. that way, my fool of a brother will know to stay away from you.”

you don’t even think you’re making sense as you blabber your agreement. you want, no, you need him to give you his heir. you need him to drive himself further into you till you feel him in your chest, in your heart.

the thought of a miniature aemond targaryen running around has your heart swelling in your chest; the life you’ve always wanted but never let yourself dream of for too long. your lives were far too cruel for such a precious being to be born into it, yet aemond seems hellbent on making it come true as he bullies his cock further and further into your cunt.

aemond slows to a dangerous grind and bends down to capture your lips, his lean torso catches on your clit as you arch up into his mouth. "aemond pl-please, i want it," you whine, your hips buck as his languid thrusts reach a spot deeper than you thought possible. "you're mine," he groans into the heat of your mouth, skilled fingers come down to rub taut circles on your aching clit. he feels the telltale signs of your trembling walls and your greedy eyes beg him for release.

“fuc-fuck, nyke’m bē konīr,” aemond huffs, feeling your cunt swell around his cock as he rams deeper into you. you’re scrambling to hold onto anything; his shoulders, his wrists, the pillow, the sheets.

when you start twitching around his cock, walls fluttering at a pace aemond can't keep up with, he thinks you're the most divine creature in all the seven kingdoms.

and as you cream around his cock, aemond finds himself pushing himself into you one more time, filling you with his hot seed and the unspoken promise to cherish you for as long as you'd have him.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

high valyrian translations:

ābrazȳrys - wife. nyke’m bē konīr - i’m almost there.

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Hello! Could you please write a stubborn, jealous hc for Miguel o'hara? Thank you!!

I had the brainworms, so I hope this is what you were looking for! Thanks for the ask <3

Jealous!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: jealous!Miguel O'Hara x reader

summary: stubborn HCs for jealous!Miguel O'Hara. 

a/n: this was meant to be a drabble and i basically wrote a full fic. i have zero self control lmfao

warnings: smut (fingering, f receiving oral, slight brat taming, etc) right at the very end, 18+ from then onwards, the rest is more pg-13

wc: 3.5k ish

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long story short: he's a stubborn little shit.

Pig-headed as fuck and it shows up in little things. 

Let's say you first met as coworkers, and you were a lab technician at Alchemax. 

Think: unstoppable force meets immovable object. He likes his labs just so, with very specific equipment in a very specific configuration. 

It drives you crazy, regularly having tiffs outside the labs; much to the chagrin of your coworkers. 

"Jesus." Your coworker mutters, wincing at the seemingly heated argument by the water cooler. 

"Ignore it, Maeve." Another coworker rolls their eyes, nudging Mave with a snort. "They're at it again . S'pose they'll tire each other out by the end of the day."

Not that they were wrong. But this time, it wasn't your fault: dealing with O'Hara's bullshit had really taken it's toll. He was insufferable, prone to nitpicking and just plain mean. You could hardly be blamed if you gave him some of your own choice words. 

"My notes were basically paint-by-fucking-numbers!  How could you mess up a simple distillation? When I specify precision glassware , you don't think that's fucking important?" 

"Your notes ," You draw air quotes pointedly at him. "-are illegible, you fucking cretin! Maybe if you didn't write like a goddamn pre-schooler-"

"- preschooler? Oh , fuck you!" 

"Get your nose out of that highschool Chem textbook, O'Hara, this is a fucking job."

"Yeah? Stop using it to wipe your ass and you might learn a thing or two."

"Oh , so that's what we're doing?" You laugh in his face, so angry your hand curls into tight fists. You get close, staring him down as you look upwards through your lashes. His own face is contorted into a grimace; bushy eyebrows furrowed into deep shadows around his eyes. You can feel his steady breathing before he speaks, low and rumbling. 

"I could do this all day, princesa. " 

You scoff, ignoring the way his words weaken your knees. The one time you asked for a break during a long lab and he won't stop calling you a spoilt princess. His laughter then stings in your ears now, the ghost of a smirk on his face as you storm off. Miguel O'Hara: smug bastard. He would be the death of you, you're sure. 

~~~

You spend many a late night with him, unwittingly, and find out he's more than a stubborn little shit. 

You find out he's funny, and shares the same anti-Alchemax tendencies you do: both preyed upon by the company immediately after graduation, young and naive. 

He's kind, even though he'd never admit it, often finishing up the lab notes and doing more than his fair share of work so you can go home at a reasonable time. 

You both still butt heads, but it turns into a tentative friendship - coffees in the morning hidden as blaise convenience, covering for each other at work, and defending the other when office gossip goes too far. 

That's why when he comes back to work after a week-long stint away - something about a blow up with the boss, an issue described as 'miscommunication, promptly smoothed over' by anyone official - you notice… something's different about him. 

You first noticed something was off when he walked in without a snide remark. You left a mug overnight at the counter, something that would usually draw a sarcastic comment at the least , but he gives you… nothing. Blank, glassy eyes as he opens up his workstation - clicking away at the keys without so much as a glance.

"O'Hara?" You call, but he doesn't even look up. You walk to his workstation and knock at the desk. He jumps. God, he looks worse for the wear. Heavy bags under his eyes and a bruise blossoming under his collar. 

"You okay?" 

He rubs his temples, eyes flitting up at you.  "Yeah, just…. just a long week, s'all." 

You put a hand on his shoulder, and you swear he leans into your touch. "We can reschedule, tonight. The calculations can wait, Miguel."

He gives you a weak smile, but a smile nevertheless. "S'okay. Need to make sure you don't fuck it up."

"Don't push your luck, O'Hara."

~~~

As you get closer, you notice just how stubborn he is to admit the growing tension between you two. 

Late nights at the lab turn into takeout at your place, morning coffee turns into a pleasant 20 minutes on the rooftop away from the hustle and bustle - just you and Miguel, talking and joking with a cup of shitty coffee in hand. 

Wholly, he seems more assertive at work, not as quick to roll over. 

It's hot, you have to admit; watching him fight with someone else other than you. 

You're at work drinks with the other technicians and engineers, nursing a watery beer when another colleague makes small talk with you at the bar.

You’ve never been that close to him, and the conversation is amicable enough, but you’re almost bowled over when you see Miguel, in the corner, staring straight at you with a stormy look.

You suppose it's a little pathetic, getting all dressed up for a casual drink. Lips shiny with gloss and gently powdered with makeup, you feel a little out of place. For all your talk at work, actually being here was another thing. Suddenly, your blouse is too tight and your skirt too short. With a manicured finger, you trace the lip of your glass filled with watery beer. You sigh. You don't want to admit it, but you were only here because of Miguel. He said he would come, and now you're sitting on a barstool counting the chips in your glass. 

It was probably for the best. You sink into the absentminded chatter of your colleagues around you, until there's a tap at your shoulder. 

"Is someone-" He clears his throat; a tall man dressed in a sharp suit nodding gracefully towards the empty chair. "-is this seat taken?" 

You shake your head, grateful for the company. He's handsome, sharp features curving into a wry grin as he calls for a drink. 

"...and something other than shitty beer for the pretty girl, too." It makes you laugh, light and lilting in the bustle of the bar. 

He stretches out his hand, and you take it. 

"Eddie Crouch. I work in marketing."

Eddie…. as in… head of the most profitable division of Alchemax? Your eyes widen involuntarily and you try to clamp down your immediate shock, somewhat unsuccessfully. He narrows his eyes as you tumble over your words. 

"Y-Yeah, same! I mean, not same , I just work in the l-labs and I thought it was just for us guys, working behind the curtain, y'know? Not that we're not thrilled to have you here, because we a-are." You spill out, wincing. "....Is this about the performance reviews? Because I know output was down this quarter but our projections are-"

"I'm not here to talk about work." He chuckles. You squint, not convinced. As if to alleviate your concerns, he loosens his tie and undoes his top buttons with a flourish. 

"Can I tell you a secret?" He leans in, and the air becomes thick with expensive perfume. He twirls the signet ring on his finger, a ring probably worth more than your monthly paycheck. 

"Your boss invited me," Discreetly, he stretches a finger at your boss; a man ruddy cheeked and red-faced with alcohol. "Guess he thought it would boost morale. He's a fucking idiot if he thinks having me, the one guy that could fire your entire department without recourse, exchange empty platitudes would boost morale. But, I digress. So here I am, dragging my feet to this bar, thinking I'm gonna get in, read the lines and get out. But then, " He pauses with dramatic effect. "I see the most beautiful person I've ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on, just sitting by the bar. Like everyone isn't already falling over themselves to talk to you."

The irony is palpable. It's sickly sweet, and a line that wouldn't usually work on you. But usually, you weren't pining over a man so prickly and stubborn, you shouldn't have feelings for. Here you were, bright cocktail in front of you and a moderately attractive man by your side. He wasn't quite Miguel, but in the words of one of the greatest thinkers of the past age: country girls make do. 

And so you make lazy conversation with the man. So lost in a tipsy haze, you barely notice Miguel walk in; dark jacket on his shoulders and deliciously loose slacks. You're drawn to him, his eyes seemingly searching the room, and you sigh into your drink. Technically, he looks like shit: eyes dark-rimmed and sunken, a cut at his brow. You think he is gorgeous, eyes tracing the slope of his nose and plush lips. Like he can sense it, he glances over in your direction and you look away hastily. He's watching , you can feel its burn as you turn, pretending to listen to the man besides you. A little cruelly, you lean into him, not breaking eye contact and curling a hand around his arm to laugh at a stupid joke. Eddie laughs with you, oblivious, as you glance behind him. 

Miguel stands with a drink thrust into his hands, looking straight through him, eyes low and gazing at you. 

~~~

He insists on walking you home, a steady hand on the small of your back as you stumble through the streets of Nueva York.

You make light conversation, tipsy and giggly from the alcohol. Miguel seems a little more put together, but his chest still creaks with rumbling laughter.

He definitely walks on the side of the pavement nearest the street, because he thinks it keeps you safer. 

He walks you up the stairs and by the door of your apartment, like a gentleman. You watch him get nervous suddenly, and he hesitates, stubbornly digging in his heels and pausing you from opening the door and coming in. 

You don't want it to end, opting to take the walk up the stairs as opposed to the lift. It's one of your more questionable decisions as you stumble up the stairs, almost tripping over your own feet. Miguel is quick to catch you even though he was just as drunk. Arm around your waist, he leaves searing touches to your hip. You giggle despite yourself, and he can't help but smile at your clumsiness. 

"If you break your legs I won't carry you, princesa ." A lie and you both know it. He would carry you to the ends of the earth like a blushing bride, if you asked him. 

You both stagger to up the stairs and through the corridor until you reach your front door. You rummage around your bag for your keycard, it's contents click-clacking in the quiet of the hallway. Miguel watches, quieter than he was in the journey. If you looked up now, you would see something else behind his eyes - a storm of apprehension and tension. 

You find your keycard, and look up to find Miguel placing a careful palm on the door. He's surprisingly still, eyes on your lips as he steps closer. You look everywhere but to meet his eyes, tracing the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his exposed forearm, and the tempting juncture of his strong jaw. You watch it tense, as he brings a gentle hand to your chin. His thumb swipes over the fat of your lip. 

"Got somethin' right… there." He mumbles, before tucking his hand away. You can barely breathe. Without thinking you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together like a gentle hug. You bring his hand to your waist, and he squeezes, ever so gently. Your hand drops and he moves his slowly, knuckles dragging along the smooth silk of your blouse, and then sending shivers when he reaches your bare neck. 

He has to bite down the plethora of things running through his head - his drunken brain threatening to spill all his thoughts. You are so beautiful and soft it makes him short-circuit, desperate to pull you close. Instead, you do: hand inching up his chest and laying to rest on his shoulders. 

He kisses you, finally ; a little messy and impossibly soft. Like his lips on yours would shatter you both. You deepen the kiss and wrap his arm tighter around you, angling your chin to drink up even more of you. You both come up for air, panting in the heat of one another. Miguel's eyes are full of lust and blown out. 

"Do…do you want to come in?" You whisper. 

Something catches in his throat and his expression changes, like he just woke up from a dream. Do you just want to sleep with him? He's not built for one night stands, can't do just sex, especially if it's you. No matter how much he wants to, he can't, he won't, "....I shouldn't."

The disappointment on your face is palpable. You want to ask why - after he kissed you like that - why doesn't he want you? Instead you nod dejectedly. He gives you a chaste kiss on the forehead, lingering, and a shaky smile. 

You open your door with a buzz, and slam it in his face. 

~~~

It takes Miguel some time to properly put a name to what you two have: not knowing if the kiss was a drunken mistake, animal attraction or something more. 

He's not a grand gestures kind of person, he believes in action rather than words. 

Which is why it takes so long for him to admit just how in love with you he is. 

He steals glances at you all the time at the office, and tries to anticipate  all your needs. 

When you stretch and yawn in the morning, he happens to pass by your favourite coffee place and happens to buy one too many cups of your go-to order. 

So imagine his shock when he arrives from his lunch break, churros and coffee in hand, and there's one of the top brass from the night at the bar perched on your desk - 2 polystyrene cupfuls of something half drunk on the desk. 

He's never been insecure, but he can't help but feel possessive, something tense and tight growing at the base of his stomach. 

"What was it you wanted to talk about?" You step into the equipment cupboard, Miguel close behind you. You rub your temples, anticipating an argument. "O'Hara, if this is about my calibration tests this morning, I swear to God -" 

"No, no , nothing like that." He's quick to say. "They were… okay." He strains. 

You raise an eyebrow. Okay? Since when did Miguel pass up an opportunity for a mindless fight? Your mind races with his actions of the past few days. He has been different since the night at the bar, a little nicer, sure, but nothing this out of the ordinary. 

"That guy you were talking to. I saw him at the bar, and now here. Who is he?" 

Your eyebrows shoot up. "You do not have the right to ask me th-" 

"Are you fucking him?" A pause, and you study his expression, deducing that he is completely fucking serious . 

"Are you insane? You definitely don't have the right to ask me that." You make for the door, and he steps in front of it, blocking it with his body. 

"I need to know. Tell me and then I'll leave you alone, I promise." His voice is low and thick with something. 

You step closer and he wraps his hands around your waist absentmindedly. The pressure feels good, and makes your brain fog up. 

He repeats himself, softer. "Are you fucking him?" 

You look at him for a moment, before shaking your head. His facial expression  is steady, just as unreadable. 

"Do you want to?" 

You hesitate, wanting to be cruel and say yes, just to see his reaction. Perceptive, he sees your hesitance and says something that almost knocks you over. 

"I could fuck you better than he ever could," He kneads your thigh now, lips close to the shell of your ear in the tight space of the cupboard. " Princesa , look at me." 

You look at him, almost whimpering and putty in his hands. He's like a siren and you are lost in the pull of his gaze. It may be the proximity, but you swear you see a tinge of red in his eyes, like deep pools of lust. 

"Will you let me fuck you?" He pulls you closer so the meat of his thigh presses against your clothed cunt. Your stretchy pencil skirt rides up suggestively, and you rock your clit against him, searching for sweet pressure. You nod. 

Miguel titters softly, a hand on your chin pulling your lips to his. You moan into his kiss, body aching. It's hot and heavy like the kiss outside your door, but he swirls his tongue around yours and expertly nips at your lower lip. He guides your hips to rock against his thigh, tensing to make sure it's corded muscle hits the right places. He wants to break you apart, leave you so cock-drunk, you wouldn't think of even glancing at another man. 

You separate and he dips a hand under your skirt. He pulls it up and places a big palm at your pussy, with a well timed slap. You bite into his neck with the pressure. You definitely don't expect it when he rips open your stockings like they were paper. 

"Fuck, Miguel." 

"It's okay, baby, I'll get you new ones." Your eyes roll back as he slips aside the gusset to run a finger through your lower lips. Shamelessly, he slips a finger in, then two, basking in the wet squelch of your heat. You claw at his forearm, as he curls them into that sweet spot. 

You press your forehead to his shoulder, chasing his fingers with your hips. His sharp eyes watch every movement, every stutter and start that his fingers pull from you. He's practical, a man of action, and he is desperate to show you how much he cares. 

"I've thought about you… about this." He hisses as you cover your mouth to dampen your moans. 

"Wanted you for so long, princesa. Want to know how you taste, what this beautiful pussy feels like. What you look like when you cum."

His wrist aches with the back and forth motion but his pace barely faulters. 

" M-Miguel …"

He applies pressure to your clit, and watches in awe as you spasm, nails digging into his forearm. 

" Oh, there it is. Right there, hmm? Does that feel good?" 

You nod frantically with a stifled sob. 

"Not quite, baby. Need to hear you say it. Or I won't let you cum."

"...fuuck you."

" Oh, you'd like that. Still not what I want to hear. Tell me how much you like it when I fuck you with my fingers."

"F-Feels good." You stutter. He stops, wrenching his hand out of your pussy to leave you clenching around nothing.You almost scream.

"You're being a brat, not my princesa , hmm? Only good girls get to cum."

" Miguel , please. I'll do anything." He guides you along his thigh, still lodged between your legs, and licks up your wetness on his other hand. "You m-make me feel so good. So good. And I want you so much it hurts, sometimes. I just want to cum, don't even need your cock. Fuck me with something , please." 

"Miguel? Not asshole? Or fucking idiot, this time?" 

"Please, Miguel ." Your pleas go straight to his cock. He throbs with need, cock rock hard under his slacks. 

He relents, not able to bear your dopey puppy-dog eyes for much longer. He slips three fingers in, without bothering to prep you. He hisses at the tightness of your heat, pounding into you and knuckle deep with his fingers. Shamelessly, you fuck yourself back on them, hips rolling over his thigh. He can't tear himself away from the sight, palming himself through tented trousers. 

You kiss and nip at his neck, as he whispers obscenities at you under his breath. 

"Can you cum for me, princesa? Cum f'me, and I'll take care of you, I promise."

You clamp down on his fingers and moan into a kiss as you ride out your orgasm. It's intense: leg-shaking and leaves you shuddering in the aftermath. You were rusty, sure, hadn't had sex with someone in a while. But Miguel made you cum so hard you saw stars, with only his fingers. Your chest heaves with the thought. 

You thought he would leave you, torn stockings and all, in the little cupboard. But he stays, to sink down to his knees and lap at your folds. You rest a hand on a shelf for purchase, head back in bliss. You cunt is still sensitive, throbbing at the orgasm he's just given you, as you licks you clean. He's taking care of you. You card your hands into his hair, tugging gently as he moans into your pussy. 

He gives your clit a gentle kiss, and swipes up a trailing tear that rolls down your inner thigh. You watch as he pops his fingers into your mouth, cleaning off the cum. Your cum. 

Miguel gives you a lazy grin in the bare bulb of the equipment closet. He seems completely unfazed by the fact his fingers were in you not a moment ago. 

"Are you free after work?" He asks, and it takes a moment for you to process. 

"Uhhh… s-sure. Probably?" 

"Let me take you for dinner, somewhere nice."

All you can do is nod, dumbly, ripped stockings still around your ankles. 

"And then I can fuck you properly, princesa." 

_

_

_

[2blockseast]

i like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it (logan howlett x gn reader)

summary: logan adores admiring you before leaving for an early morning job author's note: hi all! this is my first ever post on here-- how exciting! i'm still new to tumblr so please bear with me as i figure everything out. i like writing things based on music i enjoy (mostly their titles), and i thought this would be a fun little drabble to start. i hope you like it :] writing is purposefully in all lowercase. tags: logan howlett x reader, reader's gender not mentioned, fluff, domestic, established relationship word count: 449

i like it when you sleep, for you are so beautiful yet so unaware of it

logan hated mornings like this, when he had to wake up early while you stayed in bed sleeping peacefully. it was always because of the x-men: calling him in early for a mission or a meeting before the kids woke up, which was, of course, also before you woke up.

he hated having to leave you before you had woken up. although you would barely notice his absence as you slept, he couldn’t help but feel that he was somewhat abandoning you. you tended to cling onto him like a koala when you slept, and having to push himself out of your embrace only made him feel worse. 

he would slowly and gently pull out of your grasp, often replacing his now vacant side of the bed with a stuffy to keep you company. you would rustle around for a moment, confused by the sudden lack of warmth, but would eventually settle back into your calm slumber. he would smile as he watched you, thinking of how beautiful you were. logan always loved to admire you, but there was a kind of softness that came with doing so as you slept.

logan always made sure to let you know how beautiful you were, but you were often quick to reject his compliments, making jokes about how he was a good liar or about how he must’ve been talking about himself. it hurt him a bit, being able to feel how self-conscious you were despite his attempts to show you otherwise. you were so beautiful, yet so unaware. but when you slept, he could coo at you as much as he wanted without protest.

“you’re so beautiful, baby,” he would say, gently stroking your hair. he would trace the details of your face with his eyes, further committing your beauty to memory. 

“i wish you knew how stunning you were,” he would say, leaning down to kiss your forehead. 

he would sit on the edge of the bed complimenting you and kissing your face for several minutes, often making him late to whatever made him get up so early in the first place. despite the x-men’s grumbles about logan being late every early morning, he never cared about being late. looking over you like this had become routine for him, and it always helped him start his day on the right foot. this was like his morning cup of coffee, but 10x sweeter.

as he gave you your final gentle kiss of the morning, you rustled and quietly mumbled: “please don’t go”. 

logan softened, lightly blushing as he stroked your face again. he leaned down and softly kissed your cheek before whispering: “i’ll be back before you know it, beautiful”.

[softspiderling]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It’s late when Rafe gets home.

He only wanted to meet Topper for a drink at the country club but one turned into three and before he knew it, it was 2 am.

The house is sitting in darkness when he enters, and he tries to be quiet as to not wake you up - hell hath no fury like you woken up in the middle of the night for no reason. Rafe doesn’t even dare to turn the light on the bedroom on, letting the light in the hallway shine into the room. He can see you buried under the blankets with quiet snores, and he tiptoes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before turning the light on.

The sight that greets him nearly sends him into cardiac arrest: the bathtub stained red, splotches half hazardly wiped away, the shower sprinkled with a red liquid running down the drain, and the white towel in the hamper stained a dark-ish red.

“What the-“

Rafe’s heart sinks and he immediately books it out of the bathroom, throwing the door open so hard it nearly comes out of its hinges. He turns the light on, getting on the bed and tugging you out of under the blankets, panicked.

“Rafe, what the hell?!” you shout, but he ignores you as he scans you up and down, patting you down to see if you’re hurt.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Rafe sits back, relieved when he realizes you’re fine. “Fuck, you scared me.”

“I scared you???” you retort, staring at him flabbergasted. “I was sleeping like a baby until you barged in here and started feeling me up like you’ve been in prison for the last five years, what the fuck!”

Rafe sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I came home and the bathroom looks like a murder scene, how the fuck did you expect me to react?” he grunts, his eye twitching. “What the fuck were you even doing in there?”

Just as the words leave his mouth, he pauses, taking a closer look at your hair before running his fingers through the red strands.

“You dyed your hair.”

It’s more of a statement than a question and you nod, suddenly feeling a bit self conscious.

“Yeah. Do you like it?”

Rafe doesn’t reply, instead he brushes your hair with his fingers, coming up to the back of your head before tugging on it to pull you into a deep kiss. “It’s hot.”

You giggle into the kiss, swatting at his chest, pulling away a bit. “Sorry I ruined the bathroom, I didn’t know hair dye stains so badly.”

“‘s fine,” Rafe grunts, pressing you into the bed, as he hovers over you. “I can call a cleaning company tomorrow. Right now I’m more interested in seeing if your hair stains the sheets.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

author’s note: just a quick drabble i wrote in ten minutes inspired by me taking a shower after the hair salon forgetting how the red dye leaks. also bc @zyafics told me to post so. not beta read, we die like REDACTED

[girlboypersonthingy]

Was inspired by bambygourl’s fanart and a TikTok I saw. Dressing up as Roger and Jessica Rabbit for a costume party with Lucifer. I think he’d be all pouty and grumpy about dressing up as such a silly character and not a suave charming character. Tho his mood is sufficiently uplifted when he sees the reader dressed up as Jessica Rabbit. Pulling on his suspenders or bow tie for a kiss, getting lipstick on his mouth and face, and cooing over how adorable and handsome her honey-bunny is.

BYE I WENT AND LOOKED AT THE ART TOO THIS IS SO GOOD!!! Thank you for the request! And enjoy 😘

Notes: fem!reader, suggestive themes, just a short little drabble

Lucifer x reader- Honey Bunny 🤍

“(Y/N)…I look stupid.” Lucifer grumbles through the bathroom door to you, looking at himself in the full length mirror in front of him. He hated the way he looked in red pants and suspenders?! Like come on…and this ugly blue bow tie that clashes horribly with the rest of the outfit. “I’m not wearing the bunny ears. I’m not!” He complains loudly, pouting a bit when he hears you laughing on the other side of the door.

“I’m sure you look adorable, babe! Come on, it’s a costume party. Everyone will be in silly costumes!” You call out to him as you are finishing up your makeup. “Yes, but I’m the king of hell. I don’t want this to make me look bad. I dunno…just haven’t been out in a while. I’m feeling quite anxious, love.” Lucifer confesses in a soft and worried tone, still staring at himself in the mirror. He usually wasn’t such a poor sport when it came to these things but it’s been way too long since he’s attended a party, especially one thrown by one of the deadly sins. Luci is feeling the pressure.

A few minutes pass as you perfect your lipstick and check your hair in the mirror. Finally you slip your heels on, layer on a couple sprays of your favorite perfume and exit the bathroom. As soon as you pass the threshold of the door way, all of Lucifer’s worries dissolve away in seconds. A wicked smirk finds your lips as Lucifer feels himself becoming nervous for a whole other reason. He couldn’t get any words out, not one little whimper would even leave him. He was star struck by you in that gorgeous low cut dress with all that glamorous makeup on. Fuck, he knew it would be impossible not to stare at your chest nearly overflowing from your dress all night.

“Aww, baby! You look so cute.” Lucifer huffs at your cooing. “Pleeeaasssee put the ears on, I wanna see.” You plead as you slowly close the distance between you two. “Come on, Luci. Wear ‘em for me~” You continue your advance on him, getting so close that he has no choice but to stumble back onto the bed behind him. Putting on your best pout and prettiest puppy dog eyes, you lean down to get nice and close to his furiously blushing face. Without saying a word, Lucifer puts the white fuzzy bunny ears on his head, still staring up at you with stars in his eyes. Immediately, you perk up with a bright smile.

“Yay! Oh my goodness, you are too cute! Ugh, I love you.” Quickly, you lean in and kiss his lips, lingering there for a second before pulling back. “Oh, my dear, you are so beautiful. Wow.” Lucifer mumbles quietly as he looks you up and down. You couldn’t stifle your giggles as you admire your lipstick stamped so perfectly on his own lips. “You know…” You start before slowly slipping your fingers under his suspenders and gripping them tight in your fists. “We don’t have to go.” Teasingly, you crawl into his lap, now straddling him on the bed as you use his suspenders to get him closer. “We could just…stay home.” You kiss his cheek. “I could ease your anxiety.” You kiss his other cheek then his forehead. “And you can mess up my makeup all you want~”

You sit up straight now and Lucifer looses all his self control as his hands come to your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he finds himself perfectly face to face with your busty chest. His entire face from neck to ears is rapidly turning darker shades of red as a dopey smile widens across his cheeks. Bitting your bottom lip, you shimmy your chest in his face. “Whatdya say, my little honey bunny~?” Lucifer becomes weak and flops back on the bed, laying on his back as you straddle his lap still, enjoying seeing him in this state of desire and embarrassment. He puts an arm over his face in hopes of hiding from you but of course, you pull his arm away and look down at him with a loving gaze. He looks so precious right now- in this silly costume just for you, blushing and sweating and speechless all for you, and covered in your lipstick too.

“No, no…” With a loud and exaggerated sigh, Lucifer sits up and gives you gentle hug, now letting his head rest on your plush chest. “We should go. It’ll be good to make an appearance, catch up with some friends.” After a tight hug, you happily hop off his lap and grab his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Great choice, my love. This will be fun! And I’ll be with you the whole time.” You assure him before leaning over and straightening out his bow tie. Without warning, you use the fabric around his neck to pull him into another heated kiss, this time Lucifer’s hands come to your hips as he hums against your lips.

“Fuck, you’re so cute. Promise you’ll mess up my makeup later then?” You nuzzle your nose against his face as you await his reply. He hesitates, obviously flustered and trying to keep his dick under control. “Anything you want, my love.” And now you’re giggling again, pulling him by the hand out the front door. “Oh! I forgot, lemme get something to wipe your face. You’ve got lipstick every-“

Lucifer pulls you close, wrapping his arm around your waist as he smirks devilishly. He continues to pull you along out the door. “I already look silly, right? Eh, just leave it. It’ll let everyone know that the babe in the black lipstick beside me… Yeah, she’s mine and I’m hers.” It’s your turn to blush and oh boy, do you turn red.

And the whole car ride there, you’re just covering him in more and more kiss marks, even leaving a hicky or two on him as he fondles your chest and slowly becomes drunk off your lips. You two walk into the party looking disheveled but happy, Luci covered in lipstick and sweat while your hair is a bit of a mess now and your lipstick is almost completely wiped off. Hes really glad he decided to wear the bunny ears after all because he loves the way you keep looking at him tonight.

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Casually calling them "daddy" LADS

Word count; 1,913

Themes; slightly barely there suggestive content, fluff, established relationship

Warnings; mention of "daddy" ofc, fluff

Notes; So these turned out more fluffy than I originally intended...honestly, thought they'd be more smutty, but I've learnt that it's really difficult for me to write smut. Or at least, smut with little to no context before it all goes down. I might eventually write some smuttier drabbles, but regardless of smut, I hope you enjoy this little thing I wrote!

You saw that there was an old trend about calling your boyfriend “daddy” and videoing their reaction so, obviously, you wanted to give it a try…

Xavier 

It's been almost a year since you and Xavier started dating– and it was a wonderful eleven months! He told you everything about himself. What his future with you was like, all of his feelings throughout the centuries, and you listened. You wholeheartedly believed him, because it would be one hell of a lie if it wasn't true…and you didn't think Xavier had the time or energy to come up with a complex lie like that. 

But even if you now know, time moves on. There's not much you can do about your future self, so you can't really change the future in that way though…Xavier's here now, in the past, and that's all that matters to you. 

Anyway, today was just a normal day as any. 

You were sitting at the counter, keeping a close eye on Xavier– who was attempting to follow, yet another, cooking tutorial. The man was desperate to cook a decent meal for you. His heart dead set on making you something edible for your upcoming year anniversary…and while that was cute, you also wanted to mess with him. 

You push your cup just out of your reach and make a big show of trying to reach for it, before sighing loudly. 

“Daddy, can you pass me my drink please?” 

You can hear the clang of a spatula hitting the floor and you watch Xavier’s body comically whip around to face you. 

“What?” His head cocks to the side as his wide eyes were set on your face. “Say that again..”

“Hmm? I said ‘Xav, can you pass me my drink, please’.” You copy his head tilt and he quickly shakes his head.

 “No, no you didn't.” He takes a few steps toward you before grabbing your hand in-between both of his. “Say it again.” 

You couldn't resist his sweet puppy dog eyes, so you hold back a smile as you meet his eyes. “I...called you daddy.” 

“Really?” He seems unusually excited. “So are we…?” His gaze lowers to your stomach and you can’t help the giggle that slips from your lips. 

Gosh, he was so cute. 

“Baby– no, no. We're not pregnant.” You run your fingers through his hair with a smile on your lips. “Are...you disappointed?” 

“Mmh..” Xavier hums thoughtfully for a moment before he shakes his head. “No. We can just make it a reality later. No need to rush.” 

Zayne 

You and Zayne have only been dating for six months, but it felt like much longer. Having known each other since you were little, you both had always been close– well, your definition of close and his were probably different. You always thought of him as a friend while he tried to keep a distance and thought you hated him. But time brought you both back together with him as your primary care physician. 

The two of you had been flirting up until his birthday and finally made it official once he blew his candles out on the cake you made for him. It was a sweet time, but that was six months ago. 

Now, though, you really want to fluster the man. 

He always embarrasses you and makes you feel nervous, but you never get to see him that way. Sure, his ears will turn red and sometimes he won't meet your eyes when you get too intense with him, but you've never seen him absolutely shocked. And you just wanted to see one look of surprise from him. 

So, what did you decide to do? 

You decided to casually call him "daddy” as a joke.

That should definitely go over well. 

Zayne is seated behind his desk at the hospital, sorting through papers as you longue on his sofa. Your eyes continuously glancing toward the windows to make sure the door was shut and the blinds were closed. 

“If you keep staring at the door, you just might burn a hole through it.” Zayne says, though he didn't even look up from his paperwork. He was attentive like that and probably already knew you wanted something or you were ready to go home. And he was right. 

“When are we going home…daddy?” You ask as you kick your feet in the air behind you. You were on your stomach, resting your cheek against your arms as you watched his expression…which didn't change at all. 

"Just give me a few more minutes, angel, and I'll be done.” Zayne pushes his glasses up with his index finger and clicks his pen, jotting down a few notes. 

“I–” You puff your cheeks out with a small sigh and decide to keep going with it. “I want to go home now, daddy.”

“Didn't I just tell you to be patient?” Now Zayne finally looks up at you with one of his brows raised. “I'll deal with you when we get home.” 

Rafayel 

It's been four months since Rafayel asked you out. Four months since you tugged Rafayel down into the bath with you, which set off a chain reaction of a steamy night, followed by him asking you out the next morning; he also complained that you both went out of order, but he wasn’t too upset when you continued where you left off…

Now, though, you moved out of your apartment and to Rafayel's home, ‘Mo Art Studio’ at Whitesand Bay. 

It was definitely odd at first, but it was a good change of pace. Always being by the ocean, able to take your morning walks together on the beach and collect seashells. You had a whole collection on your desk at work. He'd always give you the most unique and prettiest shells, saying “only the best for his cutie”. 

He was also so easy to fluster. 

You immediately knew you had him wrapped around your finger every time his ears would turn red. That same crimson slowly made its way from his ears to his cheeks, all the way to his whole face. So you assumed your little ‘prank’ would also have the same effect. 

You were sitting on a beach towel in the sand with an umbrella blocking your eyes from the bright sun. In front of you was Rafayel, painting your visage, with an easel. His hand deftly moves across the canvas as he sketches the outline for his new painting. 

Lately, you are the only thing he can paint. Always asking you to stop what you're doing so he can run and get his sketch pad. You could be doing something so normal and mundane, but he'd be struck with the inspiration to record your very image. 

As much as you loved it and thought this was very sweet, after almost two weeks of this…You wanted some form of payback. 

“Hey, daddy, can we take a break for a second? It’s really hot out here.” You squint your eyes to try and see Rafayel's face, your hand fanning at your body because you, seriously, are hot out here. 

“Huh?” 

It's like Rafayel is frozen in time, or buffering. He's just blankly staring at you with a confused expression on his face until his pencil drops into the sand. That's when he quickly stands up  and makes his way toward you. 

“Again.” 

Now, it's your turn to be confused. 

“Raf, what–” 

“Not that, say the other word again.” His ears were red as he crouched down in front of you, a look of determination in his eyes. 

“No– you're making it weird!” You put your hands on his shoulders, trying to put some distance between him as your face turns red. 

“Please, I really need to hear you say it again! I'm seriously going to die if you don't.” There's your overdramatic fishy. 

“Fine, but just this once.” You grumble, turning your head to look away from him. “Daddy…” Though you say it as low as you can and Rafayel groans, tilting his head back. 

“Louder.” He rests his forehead against yours. “Come on, cutie. If you don't…I might want to change that to my new nickname.”

Sylus

It's been about…a year? Yes, definitely a year since you and Sylus started dating. Well, you both have differing opinions on when exactly you started dating. Sylus claims it was the moment he laid eyes on you in the N109 Zone, while you claim it was only about six months ago– which is when you and Sylus made a bet. 

It was a bet where if he came back safely from his mission, he'd leave you alone. He wouldn't bother you anymore, wouldn't talk to you, contact you, anything of the sort…and you won, but you didn't realize he'd actually do it. So whenever you seeked him out to make sure he was safe, and he ignored you, you realized that maybe you did want him in your life. 

This led to you running across the street to him and jumping into his arms like this was a hallmark movie, and you claim this was when you officially started dating Sylus.

But between us, you just agree with Sylus when he says a year, because if you don't, he'll pout for the whole day. 

...And today was one of those ‘pouty Sylus’ days. 

You went on a mission that was probably way too dangerous, even though you told Sylus you were going to slow down on your Hunter's work. But you couldn't just ignore endangered civilians. If any of them would have died, that would've been too much for your sympathetic heart to handle. 

And even if Sylus understands your reasoning, he's still upset that you left without telling him– having woken up to a cold bed without you by his side sent him spiraling into a panic. 

So, when you got home, you noticed he was sulking in the kitchen as he made dinner. 

“Sy…” You take your shoes off by the door, nervously fiddling with your fingers as you tentatively walk into the kitchen. Standing behind the counter, you sigh, “I'm reeaally sorry...” 

“If you're reeaaally sorry, then help me make our dinner.” He says, not looking up at you and that doesn't make you feel any better. 

“Okay..” You finally step past the counter and you look around. “So…what do you need?” You were trying to figure out something– anything that could make Sylus feel better when a thought comes to your mind. 

Most guys probably like it when their girlfriend calls them daddy…right? 

“In the cabinet, top shelf. I need a bottle of garlic powder.” 

Okay, you got this. 

You take a deep breath and open the cabinet, straining your arm to try and reach the seasoning bottle, but your fingertips barely brush it and knock it over. “Shit…” You swallow back your nervousness before continuing, “Daddy, can you grab it for me?” 

The room fills with silence for a moment, but then you hear Sylus chuckle. 

“Sure, kitten.” 

Your back suddenly feels warm as a firm chest presses against it and Sylus reaches up from behind you to grab the bottle. 

“I ask you to do one simple thing and you can't even do that.” Sylus chides, clicking his tongue as he pops the bottle open to pour some into the pan on the stove. 

“Da–”

“If you think a few empty words will make me feel better, kitten…you've got to try a lot harder than that.” 

I'd like to say, this is definitely one of my better drabbles– one of my favorites, in fact!

I have like...six more ideas for drabbles and then I'll need to come up with some more. Like these new cards and Rafayel's student photoshoot event really had me thinking of how seriously the LADS men would take roleplaying– and that spawned a whole different drabble idea, so you can definitely look forward to that!

I'm trying to come up with new ways to do my drabbles, so that's why I did a little prelude before I started writing for the guys. Please let me know any feedback yall have for me! Especially with the coloured dialogue, I'm not too sure if I like it, but it seems really pretty and probably makes it easier to tell who is talking apart. (I won't use it for my fic though, only the drabbles!)

Anyway, I have a small personal project I'm working on this weekend so I probably won't be able to write any chapters for my 'Divisa' fic, but I'm still going to post chapter nineteen of 'Twist of Fate' and try to write at least two more chapters since I'm only on twenty-three or so.

I hope you all enjoyed these drabbles and I hope yall have a great night/day! 🩷

[hellisharchive]

The Most Divine

Summary

▬ Drabbles of how Lucifer and Adam would fight over gender neutral reader!

・━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━・

・C/TW! ▬ 18+, NSFW

・NOTES! ▬ Literally did not mean to this post now but whatever hope you enjoy it. It's also 3 am yay

・━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━・

♡...... LUCIFER would take notice of you immediately in the Hotel, from your voice to your body to your eyes, you were beautiful in every sense of the word. He treated you like royalty, like you were the best thing he could have found ever in all his billions of years of existence. He never made any moves on you though, the mental scars from Lillith leaving him still fresh in his mind and heart. You two were both really good friends though and he wouldn't trade that for the world.

♡...... ADAM would take notice of you during your first year in Hell as you were out during extermination day. He hates sinners with his very being due to a certain fallen angel, but something about you enamored him. He managed to find you alone and decides to take his chance. He hit on you and he ended up throughly fucking you in exchange for being spared this year.

♡...... LUCIFER makes sure you're ok after extermination day, you tell him that you ran into Adam and that he spared you, but not the true reason why. It made Lucifer incredibly angry as he knew you were lying, but played it off as he didn't want to be too overbearing and controlling. He was just concerned for you as Adam wasn't the best guy, regardless if he spared you or not

♡...... ADAM decides to watch you from heaven, keeping it a secret from Lute as she would surely scold him and never let him live another day without her disproving self. But seeing you talk and laugh with Lucifer made his blood boil. How dare you move onto that bastard after you just got fucked by the original dick? He didn't expect his attraction to you grow this bad, but it every passing moment when he didn't have important shit do, he watched you and Lucifer be all buddy-buddy.

♡...... LUCIFER would finally confront you about Adam, feeling jealous that he would be so much better in bed than that man. He knew he would treat you right. He watched as you stared up at the sky, knowing you were missing that angel for some odd reason. You admitted it right away, the guilt eating away so badly it was hard to contain. You did miss him despite him really being a terrible person, you did miss him. He shushed you and told you it was ok and that he wasn't mad, he was just concerned if he hurt you in anyway.

♡...... ADAM would reach his breaking point when he sees Lucifer tllt your chin up and say that he would always be there for you. Always make you feel better and always make you feel loved. He couldn't take it. Watching the scene play out with a hug, you two parted ways. Watching and waiting until Heaven's mistake was alone, the first man opened up a portal to Lucifer lounging on his couch on his phone when he looked up, not surprised at the sight before him.

♡...... "Well if it isn't the first man. Been a while since Eden? How've been? Fucking my people you swore to kill every year?"

♡...... "Shut the hell up! You stole Lillith from me. You stole Eve from me. You will NOT steal them from me!"

♡...... LUCIFER stood up then, despite his shorter stature, he walked right up to Adam with a smirk. He wasn't going to back down. He wasn't scared of this asshole. Even if he was scared to let you in, he still loved you very much and didn't want you wasting your time here in Hell with this man.

♡...... ADAM simply looked down at him, letting his anger be very known to the fallen angel. The key word is fallen. He was a traitor to everything good, and Adam would show you everything good and more if you let him instead of Lucifer.

♡...... "You think they were screaming your name? Last night, we were going so hard they cummed multiple times on my face just from my tounge" It was a lie, you both never had any sex at all, but he wanted Adam to feel intimated.

♡...... "That's a fucking lie. I've been watching them and you laugh and joke but never fuck. At least I actually fucked them unlike your coward ass. How's Lillith by the way? She really seems to love being with you, prick"

♡...... LUCIFER was going to quip back as the snide about his ex-wife especially upset him, but the door opened and you walked in sleepily and asked what was going on while rubbing your eye. Every one of you froze as the situation was becoming apparent to you as you woke up. He watched as you started to panic, knowing that this situation got too out of hand. You rushed up and demanded what was going on in a half sleep state. He was too angry to fully appreciate how adorable you were like that.

♡...... ADAM didn't feel threatened by your prescence at all, in fact, this was going to work in his favor. Smirking, he sauntered up behind your smaller form and wrapped his hands around your shoulders, leaning down and asking in a soft voice if Lucifer ever fucked you. You said no and shook your head. He could tell by the fact that you were shaking that you were very anxious yet thrilled at what was happening. He knew you liked Lucifer, he was just too much of a pussy to take what he wants. It's ok though, more for him.

♡...... LUCIFER hated how Adam defaulted to sex instead of what a real relationship is and its far more than lust. It was always being there for them, helping them, ensuring they were safe and loved. Not someone who fucked them and stalked them. But the ruler of Hell would play his game. Walking closer to your caged in self, he got right up in front of your face with a certain type of smirk you've never seen him wear before. However, his attention was turned above your head to Adam as the taller angel rested his head on top of yours.

♡...... "What's big shot doing now huh?"

♡...... "How about this? We both fuck them at the same time and see which one of us they like better"

♡...... "Deal"

[ghoulphile]

it's always the quiet ones | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | pre-war cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 700 ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; oral (m receiving), throat fucking, choking, dirty talk, bathroom sex ➥ summary | based off this ask; We can see that Cooper tends to go for good girls (like @ghoulfuckersincorporated mentioned!), but what if he ran into a seemingly innocent - or at the very least kind - person… but they dirty talk like a sinner in the sack? ➥ notes | i humbly offer this drabble to @gingersforeverbox 🙈 masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?

At least, that’s what Cooper’s mama always said (and he wouldn’t know how right she was until he found himself shoved in a swanky club bathroom, slacks tucked under his ass as the prettiest — politest — lady choked herself with his cock).

Frankly, how he got here’s a hazy blur of bourbon and cigar smoke.

Whispered conversations and coy looks. The flash of cherry red nails, and a well timed head tilt; a pretty little thing cozied against him as nameless faces passed in and out of view.

Another pointless after party (though far smaller of an event than he used to pull) where vultures circled the room, waiting for their chance to pick at his bones. LA devotee’s ready to snap up the scraps of the once great Cooper Howard.

Dog eat dog; he couldn’t stand the petty games —the mindless indulgences.

So, he’d invited you as a buffer.

An acquaintanceship that’d gone back years, having met on set of one of his earlier productions, you were always cordial and had a kind word to say about anybody. Not a mean bone in that body… or so he’d thought.

Now, he’s not so sure he knows you half as well as he thought he did.

“Fuck!”

Air hisses through his teeth, his hands hovering over the sides of your head, unsure where to grip. Your hair looks awfully pretty (like it took a long time to force into shape), he’d hate to ruin the style. But if you keep trying to suck his soul out through his cock, he might just have to sink his fingers into those delicate curls and yank.

“S-Sweetheart, what are you — oh, ssshit.”

You peer up at him from beneath the spiky fan of your lashes and hum. His hips jump and you choke, your tongue pinned as your teeth scrape along his thick shaft.

Spit drips past your swollen lips, clings to your chin in sticky strings. The lower half of your face is a mess of smeared lipstick and pre-cum.

He pants, gazing down at you with awe. “How’re you so fucking good at this?”

He’s so big, stretching your mouth to the limit. A tender ache sets behind the hinge of your jaw, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Those half-lidded eyes, dark and hungry, make it all worth it. The slack circle of his mouth, the pained furrow of his brows as he wrestles with his self control all the payment you require.

You pop off; trace along the throbbing vein with your tongue as the heavy weight of his cock slips free with a wet suction. Your thighs clench and your toes curl in your heels at the low-throated groan punched from his chest.

“Practice makes perfect, don’t you think, Mr Howard?” you press a sloppy kiss to his leaking slit, lapping up the salty beads of fluid. Your fingers roll his balls, dragging the tips of your nails along the sensitive skin to watch him shiver. “Besides, I’ve seen how you look at me.”

His eyes flick off to the side, blowing wide once he catches your reflections in the mirror. He gulps, his knuckles white beside his hips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetheart.”

“Please, spare me.”

You snort, roll your eyes and shoot him a catty grin. Laugh when his cock throbs at the teasing flash of your tongue.

“You’re sweet — as true a gentleman as they come — but you can’t fool me. You’ve wanted me since you met me... and I don't get my best dress dirty for just anyone.”

“...”

“Now, before you try to say otherwise, remember whose on their knees with your cock in their mouth.”

“...No. Y-You’re right but I… I shouldn’t want to.”

You wink, circle the crown of his head with a red nail. More pre-cum dribbles from the slit, sticky drops you kiss away with your tongue.

“It’s okay, Mr Howard,” you say. “I want you too. Now do us both a favor and fuck my throat until I can’t talk. Please, I want it to hurt — want you to make me cry.”

[kingofbodyrolls]

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]

[navi]: end of the world // end of the world: a flickering hope // shower drabble // whalien52 // end of the world: epilogue

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?? 💜

→ Taglist: @idkjustlovingbts @lovelgirl22 @gimeow @sweeetas @viankiss @goldietigers294 @this-most-assuredly-counts @futuristicenemychaos @funnygirls-things @ysljoon @livingformintyoongi @as-hs-blog @urmomluvsrose @yasmineixyjay @purpleheartsandarock1 @alextgef @coree730 @wobblewobble822 @coldcoffee2121 @zzoguri

[sluttsumu]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ CASE OF THE EX

ೃ࿐ feat. gojo satoru

in which: you run into your ex husband just when he realizes he needs you back.

contains: nsfw, smut, exhusband!gojo, dubcon, infidelity, intoxicated sex (alcohol), breeding, gojo calls reader wifey, exhibitionism if you squint. wc: 1.3k

ೃ࿐ ki’s note: this was supposedly to be a drabble and ended up being way longer than expected. i’m also trying out a diff writing style lmk whatcha think!

it’s freezing, as it normally is in december, but this was a different type of cold.

the standing on your ex husband’s porch, four glasses of wine deep, kind of cold. you’ve been standing outside for borderline five minutes, but you know he’s home.

“satoru..” the door creaks open to a very tipsy gojo standing on the other side. he’s quick to pull you in without another word because, “it’s freezing, why are you here this late?”

locking the door behind you he winces, rubbing his eyes trying to remember what day of the week it is. “is it my weekend to have her?”

her being your daughter, satoru’s beloved angel — the only other girl he’s ever loved besides you.

loved. past tense.

he swears he’s still inlove with you but you never believed it. you hated gojo satoru, but that’s just what you wanted yourself to think. he’s been trying to break down this wall of resentment for months, after all it’s been almost a year since you two split.

“she’s at your mothers house, i dropped her off last night.”

gojo could breathe easy knowing his daughter isn’t here, he didn’t want her to him like this; drunk, that is.

you watched as he disappears into the kitchen, taking your coat and shoes off, leaving them in familiar places.

you don’t why you’re here, back in this house, with him. it’s almost as if you were on autopilot directing yourself to a common place with no intention just…there.

he comes back with a bottle in one hand and two crystal glasses in the other, staring blankly before asking again, “why are you here?”

the silence was loud enough, it was actually the most you two have spoken in the past year.

—

“do you miss me?” smirking with the tilt of his head he rests his head in his palm, eyes flickering between you and the full shot in front of you. the two of you playing a variation of truth or drink.

“satoru…don’t do this to me.” you face palm.

“i know you do, but if your ego is too big to admit it then take it.” slender fingers slide the glass your way, you could see your reflection in the liquid, and god, you look guilty.

speaking of looks, if they could kill you’d be a dead woman. the way he looks back at you across the table reminds you of all of the reasons you crave gojo satoru.

you took the shot, quickly too. it burned going down almost lighting your body on fire in a self-sabotaging way. he found pleasure in watching you not admitting the blatant fact.

“you deny it but it’s true,” standing, he downs the contents of his glass mid-sentence, making you both somewhat even in intoxication.

the ‘clink’ of him setting his glass down next to yours echos as he’s now moved from sitting across to standing in front of you.

“ ‘m sure there a lot you miss about me, hmm?” his hands slide between your hair and skin, four out of five digits resting on the nape of your neck, his thumbs brushing against your cheek.

from gojo’s pov he couldn’t have you in a better place, literally in the palm of his hand. as crazy as it sounds he had to do this, he loves you, and love makes you do some…not nice things.

to be fair, manipulation and persuasion are not the same to him. he never told you to come over, but then again he could’ve called you an uber and sent you back home…that would’ve been the ‘right’ thing to do.

unfortunately for you everything that comes to mind in the head of gojo satoru is right.

you nod shyly, listening to each saccharine word that leaves his lips.

“c’mon wifey, it’s been so long” the nickname filled your chest, heavy. suddenly it was impossible to move from where you sat. “i’m seeing someone..” a hand, on his chest as a half-assed attempt to defy him.

—

“s-satoru!” you sound so cute under him, clawing at his sheets. that little confession did something to him, made him want to punish you in the most primal way.

seeing someone? oh that’s not happening, not as long as he’s breathing will you ever be with another man. you’ll always be his pretty, little, obedient wife, who spreads her legs for him any time he pleases.

after all you’re still legally married. gojo refused to sign the divorce papers you sent him and eventually you stopped trying.

you could feel a vibrating pulse within the sheets, it was your phone ringing at a time like this.

“hello?” he answers the phone mid-fuck. “oh well if it isn’t your little boyfriend? i’m in the middle of fucking your girl silly, clearly you haven’t been doing it right..”

his pace increases to a gruelling speed, each thrust clapping against your ass, and it was fucking loud. “fuck! satoru please—! hang uuuuuup.” your begging only fuelled the fire, you needed to know who you belong to and so did your boy toy on the other line.

gojo can’t help but chuckle pridefully, watching you impaled on his cock, but he needed to hear it. no, the sounds of you practically crying while he fucked you wasn’t enough. he wants to hear you beg for him, praise him even. like a god.

“let him hear it wifey ♡︎” he frees a hand by placing the phone next to your head.

“tell him how much,” thrust. “you need your husband’s cock.” thrust. “i fuck so much better than him don’t i ?” thrust. “awe.. you cryin’?”

“need it—! want it satoru! you’re so— hahh! —good!” he was made to torture you like this, fucking you dumb into his mattress while making you spew naughty things for him.

you could feel his speed getting aggressive. beads of sweat falling down his toned tummy to his v-line, the two of you making a sticky mess from being skin to skin. you couldn’t think, mind hazy and full of him.

“fuuuuuck, how about i stuff you full? maybe i should give you another baby, ‘nother reason to be attached to me.” the hypnosis in his voice casts you further under his spell as he grunts sweet nothings into you ear while he pounded your pussy.

“love it,” you growl into his pillows. “i love you satoru! cumming…i’m cumming, please let me cum—” you could only focus on the high washing over your body as your legs begin trembling, muscles spazzing at your arousal tipping over the edge.

your desperation is music to his ears, his lust turning uncontrollable as he assaults your cunt fucking you hard, and deep. at this rate he’ll get you pregnant.

“cum for me, cum with me— shit!” he drawls, gritted through his teeth, bottoming out in his favourite fucking pussy. this feeling will never get old, fucking you will never not be his favourite pastime.

meanwhile the overstimulation teasing your cunt made you that much wetter, and tighter for him. you couldn’t take it anymore, you need it — need his seed sopping out of you. you didn’t even care about your boyfriend who was still listening to this live porn. gojo’s rewired that wondering brain of yours. back to him, in this house, on his bed, fucking his cock.

you might just even take him back.

his pleasure builds as he pumps into your cunt a few more times, before emptying inside of you. you could feel it, cunt full of him. his body collapses on top of yours, fingers intertwining on your hands while you both catch your breath.

“she’s not coming home.” the line cuts.

© SLUTTSUMU 2023 - please refrain from copying, reposting or translating.

[ficmenrhot]

Love Language with Finnick Odair /drabble/

Notes: slight suggestive themes, brief mentions of sex, but other than that, this is pure fluff <3

A/N: Can I just begin by saying how grateful I am about the attention my last drabble received?!! It’s incredible :)

Possession and Jealousy Drabble

Finnick Odair whose love language is physical touch and acts of service. Finnick Odair who is constantly touching some part of you, whether that’s having his hand on your thigh or having your pinkie fingers linked together to assure you that he will always be by your side. Finnick Odair who wraps his muscular arm around your waist at parties and places a hand on the small of your back so you always feel supported. Finnick Odair who’s always there to offer you a shoulder to cry on and a body to cuddle until your heart’s content. Finnick Odair who loves to have sex with you, not rough fucking but to make love to you, because he enjoys the intimacy of it and thinks that action speaks louder than words. Finnick Odair who constantly peppers you with kisses, anywhere and everywhere, unafraid of PDA. Finnick Odair who sneakily loves to show more physical touch in public because of his possessiveness and he enjoys the jealous look of other men that walk past.

Then, Finnick Odair who believes that acts of service, other than physicality, is the best form of loving. Finnick Odair who refuses to let you lift a finger when he’s around. Finnick Odair who provides you with princess treatment and runs around helping you to complete your tasks. Finnick Odair who offers to cook your favourite meals and bake your favourite treats when you seem upset or in need of a cheer-up. Finnick Odair who suddenly becomes a professional masseur when you tell him that you feel sore, and Finnick Odair who writes you the cutest notes which makes you fall in love with him all over again.

Finnick Odair who smiles in self-satisfaction to how you react to his love language. When you look up at him with those pretty eyes and that gorgeous smile, telling him he doesn’t have to do so much for you, he smirks suggestively, “you deserve it honey, besides…there are always ways to thank me”

[withleeknow]

away from you.

pairing: minho x reader genre/warnings: established relationship, fluff, a touch of angst if you squint and then close your eyes entirely, unedited 🤷‍♀️ word count: 0.9k listen to 🎧: what i'm leaving for - lady antebellum note: yet another est. rel drabble because this is purely self-indulgent and i miss him very much lol

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation › masterlist › ko-fi

when you hear the key turn in the lock, you're up from the couch in a blink of an eye.

a pile of jittery nerves and longing, that's what you've been reduced to.

you will yourself to wait - the most patient you think you've been in a long time - until he hauls his suitcases past the threshold, until he takes off his coat and hangs it on the hook in the entryway, until he kicks off his shoes and places them neatly next to yours, until the keys are in the bowl, until he lets out a heavy but relieved sigh before shuffling further into your shared home.

you feel like you could cry the very second your eyes land on him. it's been months since you've been in the same room as him - exactly three and a half months, because you have been counting. counting down the days until he returns, until you're back in his embrace again.

not all of the lights are turned on, but there isn't a single part of you that cares about whether or not your living room is properly lit. you launch yourself at him with a force that sends him stumbling backward until his sweater-clad torso softly lands on the wall. minho gasps - a slightly alarmed oof! - but soon relaxes when he recognizes the familiar and comforting scent of your shampoo.

he greets you with a laugh, light and relieved, like a massive weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

"hi," you sniffle, feeling his arms wrap around your body, holding you tightly against his chest. god, it's not even dramatic to admit that you've been dreaming of this.

"hi," he says, voice muffled as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his soft hair tickling your skin. "why are you still up? i told you not to wait up for me."

"it's only 1am."

"but i know you've had a long week."

"don't care."

it's true. you can't bring yourself to care about the hellish week you've had because all of those troubles seem to melt away in his presence. you wouldn't even care if his flight had landed at 5 in the morning, because you would have stayed up the whole night to wait for him anyway.

minho makes everything better for you.

"i'm all gross from the plane," he says, though he doesn't ease his hold on you at all.

"don't care."

"you missed me that much?" there's something playful in his tone as he asks you this, partly because he always wants to tease you for being down bad for him, partly because he can sense that you're about to turn into a crybaby.

you pull back just enough to look at his face, his striking features illuminated only by the dim lights. but even then, he's still stunning. beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...

you pout with teary eyes as your fingers trace his cheek, his jawline, his sharp nose that you love so much. "don't make fun of me," you say, though your voice comes out a bit wobbly. "you know i missed you so fucking much."

he chuckles fondly at your language, his big eyes glimmering like a north star, before he dips his head to finally kiss you. and it's fucking liberating, the first kiss that you've shared in months.

his lips move languidly against yours, like he's trying to savor the moment, trying to commit to memory the taste of you because these instances tend to hit him the hardest even if he doesn't always tell you that.

he absolutely hates it when he has to be away from you, but whenever he returns and gets to have you again, it always makes the love burst tenfold in him. absence makes the heart grow fonder - maybe there’s some truth in that.

he kisses you until you're both out of breath, until he has to reluctantly pull away so your lungs wouldn't burn out. "i missed you too," he mumbles, his lips brushing yours with every syllable he speaks. "missed you so much i thought i was going to die."

you laugh at the theatrics of his words, and then you cry, a single tear overflowing and rolling down your cheek, which minho quickly brushes away with his thumb. "a little dramatic," you comment.

"i was miserable. ask anyone."

you roll your eyes, feeling the slight burn behind them as you hold onto him, clutching his sweater to keep him close to you.

“you’re never allowed to leave me for that long ever again.”

with an amused eyebrow raised, minho says, “then how long am i allowed to leave you for?”

“five hours.”

“five hours? that’s not even a whole work day.”

you pretend to be in thought, then pretend to compromise. “okay, fine. eight hours.”

his eyes crinkle with mirth as he looks at you, so incredibly endeared by the adorable pout on your lips and the glassy look in your eyes, by you pawing at his chest like you never want him to leave.

he doesn’t want to leave either. he just wants to stay by your side forever.

“god, i missed you so much,” minho breathes out, then leans down to rest his forehead against yours, nudging your nose with his along the way. “i’m sorry i was away for so long.”

“you’re here now. that’s all that matters.”

he kisses you again, even softer and slower this time. he adores you so much that it feels like his heart is about to give out.

“i’m home now. i love you.”

permanent taglist: @onlyycb97wife @starsandrqindrops @borahae-reads @abbiestearsricochet @cutiespaghetti @anthropologykpopmultistan @moonlinos

all rights reserved © withleeknow. reposting, translating and/or modifying is not permitted by any means. [posted 18.12.2023]

[springtyme]

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 ♡

I just want to steal this man's clothes. I just know he has the warmest, softest jumpers.

Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader || Masterlist || Ghost playlist

summary: Simon comes home to you wearing his jumper.

word count: 820

note: This is pretty self-indulgent, but since it's just a drabble I let myself have it. No gendering terms are used for the reader, but I would say that they are somewhat fem coded. The reader is wearing Simon's jumper which is described as being oversized on them, and Simon picks up and carries the reader.

You wrap your arms around yourself as you enter the living room of your and Simon’s flat, the cool air nipping at your skin. As you shuffle around the room, your eyes fall upon one of Simon’s jumpers hanging on the back of a chair. It’s soft and cosy, just the thing you need to ward off the cold. Without a second thought, you pick it up from the chair before slipping it on, relishing in the way it engulfs your frame.  

The jumper is much too big for you, the sleeves extending far past your fingertips and the hem grazing your mid-thigh. But you love it. You love how it makes you feel small and protected, cocooned in Simon’s embrace even when he’s not around. It is as if you are wearing a piece of him, and it brings a smile to your face.

Inhaling deeply, you catch a whiff of his cologne clinging to the fabric. It’s a comforting scent, fresh and earthy, one that instantly transports you back to the moments you’ve spent wrapped in his strong arms. It lingers around you, comforting and familiar, as you settle down on the sofa.

You sink into the soft cushions, your body relaxing against the plush fabric. The jumper’s oversized nature envelopes you, making you feel safe and secure. The warmth seeps into your bones, and you can’t help but let out a tired, content sigh as you close your eyes, surrendering to the cosiness, and soon you drift into a peaceful slumber. 

· · · · · 

As Simon opens the door to the flat, a familiar sense of comfort washes over him. As he toes off his boots, the scent of home greets him, a familiar blend of your favourite scented candle and the fresh flowers you always insist on having. The sweet aroma filling the air, instantly putting him at ease. 

The familiar creak of the wooden floorboards under his feet echoes through the hallway, a sound that signifies he is truly home as he makes his way towards the living room. His heart swells with affection as he sees you lying there, fast asleep, wearing his jumper.

He can’t help but smile at the sight. You look so peaceful, curled up on the cushion, radiating warmth and comfort. The jumper, far too big on you, engulfing your figure, making you look even more adorable.

Simon’s steps are careful as he approaches, not wanting to disturb your peaceful rest. He crouches down beside the sofa, his eyes tracing the contours of your face.

Admiring the way you look in his jumper, Simon feels a surge of love and affection. It’s in these simple moments that he realises how lucky he is to have you in his life. You bring him a sense of comfort and joy that he never thought possible.

As you stir in your sleep, Simon leans in, his lips brushing against your forehead. You smile, sensing his presence, even in your dreams. With a content sigh, you snuggle deeper into the jumper, feeling the warmth and love it represents.

Simon’s heart swells with tenderness as he watches you sleep peacefully. The sight of you curled up, vulnerable and content, fills him with a deep sense of affection. Gently, he scoops you up in his strong arms, careful not to disturb your slumber as he carries you towards the bedroom. 

With each step, he feels a surge of protectiveness, a desire to keep you safe and secure. The softness of your skin against his arms, the warmth emanating from your body, it all fuels his determination to care for you.

As he enters the bedroom, he lays you gently on the soft bed, tucking you in with the utmost care. He adjusts the covers, making sure you’re snug and comfortable. 

He takes a moment to admire you, his heart overflowing with love. He still can’t believe how lucky he is to have you in his life. The way you trust him, the way you bring him peace and happiness, it’s a gift he cherishes every day.

Simon leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He whispers words of affection, knowing you won’t hear them but wanting to express his love nonetheless. 

Simon knows that this is a moment he will remember, one he’ll think back on fondly when he’s on deployment and misses you. The image of you curled up in his jumper, etched into his mind. He knows that no matter where life takes you, these small moments of care and tenderness will always be the foundation of your love.

In the quiet of the night, Simon finds solace in knowing that he can be there for you, just as you have always been there for him. And as he lays next to you, drifting off to sleep, he dreams of a future filled with more stolen moments, shared laughter, and the warmth of your love.

[onlyswan]

jk releasing 3d on my birthday has been the greatest bday gift ever. ITS BEEN ON REPLAY NONSTOP 😋😋😋😋😋😋🤞🤞

what do you think oc’s thoughts and reactions were when they first listened to it??😭😭😭i need to know, art

summary: in which jungkook is crazy about you, and he sings songs about it.

> idol!jungkook x reader, est. relationship / fluff, suggestive / word count: 0.5k

> content/warnings: allusions to phone s*x and well… s*x, finally found the perfect time for oc piercing reveal :P

> in which masterlist!

note: BELATED HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY LINA BELOVED 💕💕💕you’re a source of light in my life and i’m so grateful for your existence <3 i hope all your wishes come true <333 lol surprise. i got bored this morning so here’s a baby drabble for u 🫶🏼 (i did say i’m taking a break from writing in oct and it’s sept 30 today so…)

—

jungkook pauses 3D at the 3:20 mark before the song can start playing again on loop, and then he looks at you with an excited grin painted on his face.

“so, what do you think?!”

you remain quiet under the weight of his tattooed arm swung around your shoulders, fiddling with his fingers as you always do when you can’t seem to sit still. it’s a contrast to the wide-eyed gasps and bright giggles elicited from you when his sultry singing voice filled all the empty corners of your shared apartment.

“mhmm…? why is my baby quiet all of a sudden?” he chuckles, nose nudging your cheek before he plants a kiss on the soft flesh.

“you were thinking of me?”

your eyes finally meet, and the curious sparkle he sees in yours makes his heart uncontrollably race inside his ribcage.

damn, he’s whipped.

“uh-uh. are you serious?”

you feign innocence, eyes going wider, surprised at his reaction.

“oh, don’t act all cute!” he exclaims, leaning back to watch an amused smile gradually form on your lips. “who else calls me in the middle of rehearsals and whines because they’re feeling needy? at three in the morning! three! huh? tell me!”

“oh my god, shut up! when will you stop bringing that up?!” you lightly punch his thigh, ashamed of your shamelessness when your yearning for your boyfriend reaches an all-time high. now that you’re being spoiled rotten with physical affection, you can no longer fathom how you used to survive it before, being distant from him for months on end. “that’s more you!”

he blinks at you, contemplating for a moment as he combs through his collection of hazy memories. “you mean, during rehearsals or at three in the morning?”

you only raise an eyebrow in response, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he bursts into a fit of giggles. uh-oh, this is what you must look like when you scold him for being frisky over the phone while you’re out in public, forcing you to bring the brightness of your phone all the way down or to hastily plug in your earphones.

the truth is he wants to kiss you more when you get a little mean, though he refuses to say it out loud because he knows that you won’t ever stop using it against him the same way you purposely wear red when you want to test his self-control.

“alright, so i’m crazy about you, and i even sing songs about it. sue me!”

you intertwine your fingers together, concealing a smile by planting a chaste kiss on the purple heart permanently inked on the back of his hand. “i’d rather touch you.”

at that, his hooded gaze travels down south where your crop top couldn’t reach, watching your stomach unsteadily rise and fall, and the butterfly-shaped jewelry that pierces your belly button seems to flutter its wings with every breath you take.

his teeth tugs at his bottom lip before his tongue sweeps over it, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“would you mind if i touch you first?”

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taglist in the reblogs! send an ask/dm if you want to be added (or removed) :D

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