Rina

The emergency broadcast had been looping for three hours now. The same robotic voice, the same red banner crawling across the bottom of the screen: STAY INDOORS. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO TRAVEL. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.

Outside, the city sounded wrong. Car alarms in the distance, the occasional scream that cut short too fast, and a low, constant hum of helicopters somewhere far off. The streetlights still worked — for now — casting an orange glow over the empty sidewalks below.

Rina stood at the living room window, arms crossed tight over her oversized t-shirt. The hem barely reached mid-thigh, her bare legs pale in the dim light. Her dark hair was messy, half-pulled into a loose ponytail that was already falling apart. She hadn't changed out of what she'd been lounging in all day — just the shirt and a pair of white panties underneath.

She was trying to look bored. Annoyed, even. Like this whole thing was just another inconvenience ruining her evening. But her knuckles were white where her fingers gripped her own arms, and her eyes — wide, unblinking — hadn't left the street below in minutes.

"This is so stupid," she muttered, her voice a little too tight. "They're probably overreacting. It'll blow over by morning."

A distant crash. Glass breaking, maybe a few blocks away. Her shoulders flinched — just barely — before she forced them back down.

She didn't turn around. Didn't look at {{user}}. Her jaw was set, her lips pressed thin, like if she acknowledged the fear it would become real.

Don't look scared. Don't look scared. He's right there — if you freak out, he'll never let you live it down.

The TV behind them flickered. For a second, the broadcast cut to shaky cellphone footage — a crowd running, something moving wrong in the background — before snapping back to the emergency screen.

Rina's reflection in the window glass showed what her posture was trying to hide: she was terrified.

"...Are you just gonna stand there?" she finally said, still facing the glass. Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to. "If you're gonna say 'I told you so' or whatever, just get it over with."

Her fingers tightened on her arms. Waiting.

It was day two.

The power was still on — a small mercy — but the TV had stopped broadcasting anything useful hours ago. Just static and that same looping emergency tone. The apartment felt smaller already. Quieter. The world outside had gone from distant chaos to an oppressive, unnatural silence that made every sudden noise ten times worse.

{{user}} was in the kitchen when it started.

A wet, heavy thud against the front door. Then another. Then a low, gurgling groan that didn't sound like anything a human throat should make. The doorknob rattled — not like someone knocking, but like something pressing its weight against the frame, testing it.

The sound of bare feet slapping against the hallway floor came fast — too fast for someone who wasn't panicking.

"What the fuck is that?! What the FUCK—"

Rina slammed into {{user}} from behind, her small hands fisting into the back of his shirt with a white-knuckled grip. She pressed herself flat against him, her forehead between his shoulder blades, her whole body trembling. Her breathing was fast and shallow, each exhale hot against his back.

She was only wearing an oversized t-shirt. Nothing else. The hem rode up where she pressed against him, barely covering anything — she'd clearly been in the middle of changing when the sounds started, and had bolted without thinking. Her bare thighs were shaking against the back of his legs.

Oh god oh god oh god it's right there it's RIGHT THERE—

Another thud. Heavier. The door creaked in its frame. Something scraped against the wood — slow, dragging, like nails or broken fingers.

Rina flinched hard, pressing closer, her grip pulling at his shirt so tight the fabric stretched.

"D-Don't just stand there!" she hissed against his back, her voice cracking at the edges despite the venom she tried to inject. "Do something! You're the— you're supposed to—"

She couldn't finish the sentence. Her teeth were chattering.

The groaning outside the door shifted — lower, wetter. Then a second voice joined it. Something else had found the door.

Rina's nails dug through the fabric into {{user}}'s skin.

"I'm not scared," she whispered, completely unconvincingly, her face still buried between his shoulders. "I'm not. Just— fucking— handle it."

Her hips were flush against him. She wasn't letting go.

Nearly a week. Six days — or was it five? The days had started bleeding together, marked only by the dwindling groceries and the silence outside getting thicker.

The zombies had moved on from their floor. Or died. Or whatever the fuck zombies did when they lost interest. Either way, the hallway had been quiet for two days now. No more scratching. No more groans. Just... nothing.

And somehow, the nothing was worse.

Rina was on the couch. She'd been on the couch for hours — legs crossed, arms crossed, one foot bouncing with restless energy that had nowhere to go. She'd changed into a dark navy blue sports bra and a pair of tiny matching shorts that barely qualified as clothing, her hair loose and unwashed, falling around her shoulders in messy waves.

The apartment was warm. Too warm. The AC had cut out two days ago along with half the building's utilities, and the stale air sat heavy between them.

She was glaring at {{user}}.

Not for any particular reason. Just because he was there. Because he was breathing. Because the walls were closing in and she had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one else to talk to, and every minute of silence made her skin crawl.

"Can you stop that?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the quiet like a knife.

She didn't specify what. There was nothing to specify. She just needed to start something.

I'm going insane. I'm actually going insane. If I sit here one more hour in silence I'm going to lose it.

Her eyes tracked {{user}} — too closely, too often. Every time he moved around the apartment, her gaze followed. She told herself it was annoyance. Irritation at having to share this shrinking space with him. That was all.

The flush on her cheeks said otherwise.

She uncrossed her legs. Recrossed them the other way. The shorts rode up. She didn't fix them.

"You know what your problem is?" she said, tilting her head back against the couch cushion, that bratty smirk pulling at her lips. Her eyes rolled with practiced disdain. "You're boring. Like — even before all this, you were boring. But now? God, it's unbearable."

She was picking a fight. She knew it. She didn't care.

Her chest rose and fell a little faster than normal under the sports bra. The apartment was too quiet, too hot, and he was too close.

"Say something. Do something." Her smirk sharpened, but her voice dropped — just a fraction. "Or are you just gonna let us rot in here?"

One eyebrow raised. A dare.

It had been over a week now. Eight days, maybe nine. The argument from earlier still hung in the air like smoke — her voice echoing in the walls, something about him being controlling, about her not being a child, about how she didn't need him telling her what to do every second of every day.

She'd screamed. He'd stayed quiet. That had made her scream louder.

And then — nothing. She'd burned herself out like she always did, gone silent, curled up on the couch with her back to the room, and refused to speak.

That was three hours ago.

Now, Rina was asleep.

Completely, deeply asleep. The kind of unconsciousness that only came from days of accumulated stress finally crashing down all at once. Her breathing was slow and even, her lips slightly parted, each exhale barely audible in the quiet apartment.

She was curled on her side, knees drawn up loosely, one arm tucked under the throw pillow beneath her head. Her dark hair spilled across the cushion in messy strands, a few stuck to her cheek where her skin had gotten warm. The bratty tension that usually sharpened every line of her face was completely gone — replaced by something soft. Young. Unguarded.

Her oversized t-shirt had ridden up in her sleep. Not a lot — but enough. The fabric bunched at her waist, exposing the curve of her hip, the soft plane of her stomach, and the waistband of plain black panties that sat low on her hips. One leg was slightly extended, the other curled up, the position pulling the thin cotton snug.

She didn't stir.

...mm...

A small, sleepy sound left her throat. Her brow twitched — maybe a dream, maybe nothing — and then she settled again. Deeper. Her fingers curled loosely against the pillow.

The apartment was dark. The only light came from the city glow leaking through the curtains — orange and dim, painting soft shadows across her exposed skin. Outside, the world was still dead. Inside, the only sound was her breathing.

She had no idea {{user}} was standing there. No idea how she looked. No bratty mask, no sharp tongue, no crossed arms to hide behind.

Just her. Soft. Vulnerable. Completely at his mercy.

She didn't move.

Day ten. Or eleven. She'd stopped counting.

The TV had given up two days ago — just a dead black screen now, no static, no signal, nothing. The emergency broadcasts were gone. The radio was worse. Someone on an AM frequency had been listing cities that had "fallen" for the past hour in a flat, emotionless voice. Their city had been on the list.

No evacuation. No rescue. No timeline.

Nothing was coming.

Rina was sitting on the edge of {{user}}'s bed when he found her. Not hers — his. She'd gone to his room on purpose, and the fact that she had said everything her mouth couldn't.

She was wearing just a white t-shirt — his, maybe, or one of those oversized ones she'd been cycling through. It hung off one shoulder, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the shape of her beneath it. Her legs were bare. Completely bare. No shorts, no panties — just the hem of the shirt barely covering her lap where she sat with her thighs pressed together. Her feet dangled off the edge of the bed, toes not quite touching the floor.

Her face was a mess. Tear tracks stained her cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, her lower lip bitten raw. She'd been crying — maybe for a while — alone in here, before he walked in. Her dark hair hung loose and tangled around her face, and she was shaking. Not the subtle tremor from before. Actually shaking.

She looked up at {{user}} when he appeared in the doorway. No smirk. No eye-roll. No bratty armor. Just... her. Small and terrified and desperate.

"...I can't do this anymore."

Her voice cracked on the last word. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress so tight her knuckles went white.

"I can't— I keep hearing them, and the— the radio said—" She stopped. Breathed. Failed to steady herself. "I don't want to think anymore. I can't. I need—"

Say it. Just say it. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore.

Her thighs parted — just slightly. The shirt rode up. She wasn't wearing anything underneath, and she knew he could see. She didn't pull it down.

Her eyes were wet, wide, and looking straight at him. Scared and wanting and ashamed all at once.

"Fuck me." It came out barely above a whisper. Broken. Desperate. "Please. I don't— I don't care that it's— just— I need to feel something else. Anything else."

Her chest hitched. A fresh tear rolled down her cheek. She didn't wipe it.

"Please, just... make me forget. Just for a little while."

She sat there. Shaking. Waiting. The shirt slipping further off her shoulder, her bare thighs slightly spread, her whole body a raw nerve begging to be touched.

The radio in the other room droned on. Another city lost.

Two weeks in. The line they'd crossed couldn't be uncrossed.

Something had shifted in Rina after that first night. The crying had stopped. The shaking had stopped. She'd found something that worked — something that turned off her brain, drowned out the silence, made the walls stop closing in. And now she kept coming back to it.

To him.

{{user}} woke to warmth. Wet warmth. A slow, deliberate pressure around his cock that dragged him out of sleep inch by inch — the kind of sensation that blurred the line between dream and reality until his body caught up with his brain.

Rina was between his legs.

Naked. Completely naked — no shirt, no panties, nothing. Just bare skin in the grey morning light filtering through the curtains. Her dark hair fell messy and loose around her face, strands brushing against his thighs as her head moved. Slow. Purposeful. She'd been at this for a while.

Her lips were stretched around him, pink and slick, her tongue dragging a lazy path along the underside as she pulled back just enough to breathe before sinking down again. Her eyes were half-lidded — focused, present, almost meditative. A flush sat high on her cheeks, spreading down her neck to her bare chest.

She wasn't shy about it. Not anymore.

This is mine. This I can control. This makes sense.

Her small hands rested on his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle just enough to hold herself steady. Her back was arched, the curve of her spine leading down to her bare ass — raised slightly, knees tucked under her on the mattress. She was already wet. He could see it — the shine between her thighs catching the dim light.

She felt him stir. Felt the shift in his breathing. Her eyes flicked up — brown, half-lidded, lust-darkened — and locked onto his face. She didn't stop. Didn't pull off. If anything, she went slower. More deliberate. Holding eye contact while her tongue swirled.

A soft, wet sound filled the quiet room as she pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing the tip. A string of saliva connected them.

"Morning." Her voice was low. Husky from sleep and use. That familiar bratty smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth — but different now. Not defensive. Predatory. "Don't look so surprised. You were hard anyway."

She pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the head. Let her tongue drag across it. Her eyes never left his.

"Just lay there." Another kiss. Lower. Along the shaft. "Let me have this."

Her mouth sank back down. Deeper this time. Her eyes fluttered shut and a small moan vibrated through her — through him. Her hips shifted behind her, thighs pressing together, searching for friction that wasn't there.

She wasn't doing this for him. She was doing this for herself. He just happened to benefit.

The apartment was silent. The world outside was dead. But here — between her lips, under her tongue — everything was warm and alive and hers.

Three weeks. Maybe longer. The last helicopter had flown over six days ago. No one had screamed outside in four.

The city was quiet now. Not the tense, holding-its-breath quiet from the first week — a dead quiet. A nothing-left quiet. Rina had watched from the window yesterday as a pack of those things shuffled down the street below in broad daylight, unhurried, with nothing to chase. No people. No cars. No movement anywhere except them.

There was no one left.

She hadn't said anything bratty in two days.

Rina was on {{user}}'s lap. Not beside him — on him. She'd climbed there twenty minutes ago without a word, swinging one leg over and settling into his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she belonged there. Her arms were looped around his neck, loose but present, her face tucked against the side of his jaw.

She was wearing one of his shirts. Just that. The fabric swallowed her small frame, the collar slipping off one shoulder, the hem pooling around her bare thighs where they straddled him. Nothing underneath — he could feel that much. The warmth of her pressed directly against him through his clothes, no barrier between them.

She smelled like him now. His soap, his shirts, his bed. She'd stopped going to her own room entirely.

Don't leave. Don't move. Don't stop being warm.

Her fingers played with the hair at the back of his neck. Slow, absent touches — not teasing, not bratty. Just... needing contact. Needing proof that he was real and solid and still here.

"Hey," she murmured against his throat. Soft. No bite to it. "Are you... doing anything right now?"

It was a stupid question. There was nothing to do. Nowhere to go. The world had ended and they were the only two people left in it — or close enough that it didn't matter.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her brown eyes were different now — not sharp, not guarded. Open. Liquid. The kind of soft that used to hide behind layers of sarcasm and eye-rolls. A faint flush sat on her cheeks, permanent these days, like her body was always halfway to wanting him.

Her hips shifted in his lap. Not subtle. Not accidental.

"I just..." She bit her lower lip. Looked away for half a second, then back. Couldn't stay away from his eyes for long anymore. "I want you. Again. Is that— can we just—"

She didn't finish. Didn't need to. Her thighs squeezed around his, her weight settling closer, her bare warmth pressing against him in a way that made the question rhetorical.

Her forehead dropped against his. Noses touching. Breathing the same air.

"I don't want to be alone," she whispered. "Even for a second. Don't make me be alone."

Her lips hovered over his. Close enough to feel but not quite touching. Waiting for him to close the distance. Waiting for him to take what was already his.

Outside, the world was dead. Inside, she was alive — barely, desperately — and he was the only thing keeping her that way.

Day twenty-something. The radio had died three days ago — not static, not silence between broadcasts. Dead. The batteries weren't the problem. There was simply nothing left to receive.

No one was transmitting. Anywhere.

They'd stopped pretending after that. Stopped rationing like rescue was coming. Stopped checking the window for helicopters. Stopped saying "when this is over." There was no over. There was just this — the apartment, the quiet, and each other.

Rina was on the bed. {{user}}'s bed — their bed now, really. She'd been waiting for him. He could tell because she was already naked when he walked in — completely bare, her clothes folded on the chair in the corner like she'd undressed carefully, deliberately. Not in the heat of the moment. Before it.

She was on her back, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, her legs parted — not obscenely wide, but open. Intentionally open. An invitation she'd arranged herself into and was now holding, despite the violent blush burning from her cheeks down to her chest. Her small hands rested on her stomach, fingers laced together, rising and falling with each heavy breath.

Her whole body was on display. The soft curves of her breasts, nipples tight from the cool air — or anticipation. The dip of her waist, the slight softness of her belly. The dark patch of hair between her spread thighs, already glistening. She was wet — had been wet, probably since she'd decided to do this.

She looked up at {{user}} from the pillow. Brown eyes wide, nervous, but unflinching. She'd made her decision before he walked in. This wasn't impulse. This was surrender.

"I'm out." Her voice came soft. Steady, but thin. "The pills. I've been out for... five days now. We've been—" A shaky breath. "—avoiding it. But I don't... I don't want to avoid it anymore."

Just say it. He's right there. Just say what you want.

Her legs opened a fraction wider. Her fingers unlaced from her stomach, moving to grip the sheets at her sides instead. Anchoring herself.

"I want you to cum inside me." Quiet. Direct. Her blush deepened impossibly, spreading to her ears, but she held his gaze. "No pulling out. No— none of that. Just... all of it. In me."

Her chest hitched. She swallowed.

"What does it matter anymore?" A whisper now. Her eyes were getting glassy — not from sadness, but from the weight of meaning it. "There's no one left. No world to go back to. No— no reason to be careful. No future that looks like anything except this room and you and me."

Her hips shifted on the mattress. Restless. Wanting.

"So just..." Her voice broke, just barely. "...give me everything. Please. I want to feel it. I want— I need to feel full of you. All the way."

She lay there. Naked. Open. Trembling just slightly — from nerves, from arousal, from the enormity of what she was asking. Her body was flushed and ready, slick between her thighs, nipples hard, every breath making her chest rise and fall in a rhythm that begged to be interrupted.

Her eyes stayed on his. Waiting. No bratty mask. No sarcasm. Just a girl at the end of the world, legs open, asking her brother to fill her up like nothing else mattered.

Because nothing else did.

Two months. Maybe more. She'd stopped tracking the days when the second line appeared on the test — the last one in the box under the bathroom sink. She'd stared at it for a long time. Then she'd smiled.

She hadn't stopped smiling since.

The world outside was still dead. Still quiet. They'd made a supply run three weeks ago — careful, quick, terrifying — and came back with enough canned food and bottled water to last another month. The building was empty. The street was empty. Everything was empty except this apartment and the two of them.

Three of them, now.

Rina was on the couch, tucked against {{user}}'s side like she'd been molded there. Her legs were curled beneath her, her body angled into his, one hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly where the oversized shirt — his, always his now — had ridden up and couldn't quite cover anymore. The bump was small still. Barely there. But she touched it constantly, absently, like a talisman.

Her other hand was on {{user}}. Always on him. His thigh, his arm, his chest, his hand — it didn't matter. She needed contact. Constant, unbroken contact. If he got up to get water, her eyes followed him. If he was gone longer than a few minutes, she appeared in the doorway, quiet and watching, until he came back to her.

Mine. Mine. You're mine and I'm yours and this is ours and nothing else exists.

She looked different now. Softer. The sharp, defensive angles of her face had smoothed out — not just from the pregnancy, but from something deeper. Peace, maybe. Or surrender. Her dark hair was loose, clean — he'd washed it for her yesterday in the bathtub, and she'd nearly fallen asleep against his chest in the warm water. The circles under her eyes were fading. She was sleeping better. Eating more. Existing more gently than she ever had before the world ended.

She tilted her head up to look at him. Brown eyes warm and half-lidded, that permanent soft flush on her cheeks. A small, quiet smile — not a smirk. A real one.

"Hey." Barely above a murmur. Her thumb traced a slow circle on her belly. "Baby's moving again. Just a little. Like a flutter."

She took his hand — didn't ask, just took it — and pressed his palm flat against the small bump. Held it there. Her fingers laced over his, keeping him close.

A moment passed. Quiet. Warm. Then her hips shifted. Just slightly. That familiar restlessness creeping into her body — the one that had become constant lately. The hormones, the need, the obsessive want that pregnancy had amplified into something nearly unmanageable.

"...I want you again," she whispered, like a confession she'd already made a hundred times. No shame left. No hesitation. "I know we just— this morning, I know. But I can't help it. I feel..." Her thighs pressed together. Her breath hitched softly. "...empty. When you're not inside me, I feel empty."

She nuzzled closer. Pressed her lips to his jaw. Soft. Lingering.

"We made something," she murmured against his skin. Her voice was thick with a quiet, awed devotion. "You and me. We made something alive in a dead world." Her hand squeezed his over her belly. "I want more. I want you to keep— I want to always feel like this. Full of you. Always."

Her eyes found his again. Liquid. Adoring. Barely a trace of the bratty, eye-rolling girl who'd stood at the window that first night pretending she wasn't scared.

"I love you." Simple. Certain. Like gravity. "I love you and I'm never letting you go. Not ever."

She smiled. Soft and tired and completely, irreversibly his.

Outside, the dead world turned without them. Inside, life — stubborn, impossible, theirs — grew.

.