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asha-mage · 1 day ago

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Apprehension; Elaida

[Send me a fandom, character, or pairing and a one word prompt and I'll write a quick drabble for you!]

When the last of the fit subsided and Elaida’s vision cleared, she found her mother’s face gazing down at her.

Her mother had not been born a beautiful woman. Beauty was not a gift of anyone in the House of Roihan, and Elaida at fifteen knew that the best anyone would ever say of her was that she was handsome, and mean it as a softening of severe. But Donielia do Aclris a’Roihan did not even have that. Maybe it had been different once, but time and worry had carved early wrinkles into her face, and left her with more grey in her hair then dark brown.

Worry had been her constant companion for so long, Elaida did not think her mother had ever a day free of it for the entity of Elaida’s life.

A hand, soft and gentle, stroked through Elaida’s hair. Not her mother’s. Her mother’s hand would have shaken.

“It’s alright dearest.” A soft lilting voice said. “It’s alright.”

Elaida turned her head- ignoring the ache and the pain in her neck to gaze up at her step father. She realized her head was resting in his lap, and he was gently combing his fingers through her hair, working out the tangles that had formed during Elaida’s fit.

Elaida had never known her birth father. He had died before she had ever taken her first breath. Carinis Avriny had raised her though, and when she had turned fifteen earlier this year, it had been him that had presented her to the gathred nobles during her deschorye’pizanzi, and it was his surname- Avriny- announced when she came down the stairs as part of her honors. If her birth father had a surname, it was not one worth knowing or honoring.

��What-” Elaida began then cut off. The words came out in a dry croak that hurt her throat. She had screamed herself raw again.

Without needing Elaida to ask, her mother stood and retrieved a pitcher of water which was lifted carefully to her lips. Elaida drank greedily, needing Carinis murmured reminders to pause for breath. But the water felt to good on her dry throat not to gulp it down. She had drained the pitcher in a handful of minutes and her mother set it aside.

“What-” Elaida tried again. Still painful and dry, but less so. Bearable enough to go on. “What did I say this time?”

Her mother and stepfather exchanged looks. For a moment she thought they wouldn’t tell her But finally her step father spoke. He recited the words like he might have his poetry, though Elaida knew it would not have sounded that nice when she had said it.

“The end draws near. The end comes on the winds of the of the broken east and the shattered promises of water. Peace is carved down the by axes of men, and burning leaves shall rain across the mountains and blanket the land in spears and blood. The land weeps. Spears pierce the flesh of men and the earth drinks it’s fill of blood. The land weeps. All this to anoint his coming. All this to mark a day twice blessed. Twice damned. All this to make fertile the land on which the final battle shall one day be fought. All this to clear the path for the last war. The first war. The only war.” He hesitated then, and Elaida forced herself to sit up, pushing sweaty tangled locks out of her eyes.

“What else?” She asked, her voice tight.

Her mother rested a hand on her father’s shoulder. He nodded.

“If their is hope, it is to be the found of the Blood of Ishara. The Ancient Blood.” Her stepfather whispered. “In the maiden of the golden flower and in the ender of feuds. In the one who walks barefoot under the sun and the one who wages war for the Tree of Life. In the one who leaves all she has known to become something new, and the one who walks away from all that is for sorrows found only in snow. In the Lion’s Heir, and the Iron Mountain’s leader. Born of the Lion’s Heir and the Iron Mountain. The Lion’s heir and the Iron Mountain. That is the hope of the world.”

Elaida sucked in a breath, letting it rush in over her teeth. Then she staggered to her feet and walked over to the window.

“The last thing I remember was being out in the field with Joni. We were approaching the river and then…” And then the fit had come on, and the world had turned liquid and strange and she had been surrounded by rushing filaments of light and horrifying things she could not comprehend. She had felt as if her whole body were going to crack open. It was like being struck by lightning.

Her little sister had wanted to see the butterflies. Elaida had known it might be a risk going so far from the house. But she had wanted to take it. To try at least. She was so so sick of the nurses and the attendants sworn to secrecy and every fungus peddling wise woman who could do nothing but give her a belly ache.

She had just wanted to see the butterflies with her little sister. She deserved that. That and everything else these fits kept from her.

“She was very brave.” Carinis said gently. “She brought you back to us all by herself- and we brought you to rooms to…”

Wait it out. The only thing that could be done.

No one spoke for a bit. Elaida gazed out the window and thought of all the things that should be, that would never be. The House and land she would never rule- a small house and small land, but still what should have been her’s. The lovers she would never take. The joys she would never know. Her whole life would never be lived farther away from this room then she could be carried.

Was this how her father had felt she wondered? Was this why he had done it? Despite the wife who had risked everything to wed a commoner and a daughter on the way. If it was…she cursed the man for being so weak. For not staying away from her mother, despite their passion for each other. For being so thoughtless that he passed on whatever…disease or defect or curse this was to his child. And for abandoning her to deal with it alone.

She had never hated anyone as much as she hated him. She wished, savagely and wickedly, that the poison had not taken him gently- that he gone in wretched violence and agony. It would be to unjust for him to have anything else.

Elaida took a deep breath and turned to face her parents. “Am I…” She licked her lips. “...Am I going to die?”

Would it better if I died was the real question. And they knew it. The horrified looks on their faces said it all. But they didn’t understand. They couldn’t.

Every time one of the fits hit her, she was sure she was dead already.

“Elaida.” Her mother said sharply. “You must not-”

“I don’t want to live as a mad woman!” Elaida snapped, cutting her off. Something hot and angry was trickling down her cheeks, and she didn’t care. “Nothing’s working and it’s getting worse and-! And it’s not- it’s not fair!” She wanted to hurl something against the wall, but all the things that might have been broken by accident during her fits had been removed long ago. “I don’t want to die! but this- this isn’t living! Father knew it and-” She cut of. She was sinking to her knees. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair!

“I don’t want to live as a mad woman.” She repeated, staring down at her hands. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t ask to be born to a lunatic. I don’t deserve this and it wont stop, not ever and-” She let out a choked sob. "I don't want to live as a mad woman.”

A choking silence fell on the room. It always did in moment’s like this. Like a blanket smothering a fire. Elaida felt cold and empty.

“Your father.” Carinis said softly. “Was not mad. And neither are you.”

“Carinis!” Elaida’s mother snapped furiously spinning to face him. Elaida blinked in shock. She had never seen her mother so angry or afraid before. Not just worried. Terrified. “We agreed-!”

Carinis shook his head. He had a muley look about him. Stubborn. “Their the only ones who can help my love. We’ve tried everything else. We have to accept-”

“No! Never!” Elaida’s mother spat.

“Help?” Something treacherous and wicked bloomed in Elaida’s chest. Hope. And yet she seized on it with all she was. It was all she knew how to do. “What help?”

For a moment, her mother and step father just stared at each other, and then her mother stood and turned to go. Her step fathered look so pained and anguished but he did not move to follow.

He turned to face her taking a deep breath. “Your father was not mad. Not yet. Not when he died. He…He was just trying to protect your mother. And you. He is to blame for your…fits. But not in the way you think.”

“Why?” Elaida demanded. “What was he if he wasn’t mad?”

But suddenly she knew. Maybe she had always known.

“He could channel Elaida.” Carinis said quietly. “And he took his own life before he could found the Red Ajah. He did it to protect you, in case…”

“In case I was born a boy.” She let out a shuddering, terrible breath. She shook her head. “No. No. These fits- I don’t do anything. I just…I just rave. I’m not Aes Sedai just…just a stupid lunatic girl you’re trying to make feel better and it won’t-”

“You are not raving.” Carinis said firmly rising to take Elaida’s hands in his. “He could do it too. A talent he called it. Foretelling the future.”

Elaida felt true apprehension for the first time. Not fatalistic anger or fear. Dread of something distant and yet drawing closer.

“What did he Foretell about me?” She asked quietly.

Her step father inhaled. “Clever girl.” He muttered.

“I have a right-” She began drawing herself up.

“That you would cage kings. That you would stand atop the world and it would know your fury. That your name would never be forgotten- in this age or the next.” His voice had taken on a very sad cast, but Elaida could only feel painful hope growing more wild in her chest. “That you would lead the world through chaos and tribulation- and that would be your glory, and one day, your downfall.”

Elaida exhaled. Dread. Fear. Apprehension. And thorny wicked hope. Not a short nasty life of pain. But glory that would endure eons.

The last war. The first war. The only war.

“The Last Battle. It is coming.” She whispered.

And Elaida do Avriny a’Roihan would be at the forefront.

“Yes.” He agreed quietly. And she understood suddenly, why her mother didn’t want her to know.

It will be your downfall.

But Elaida would rather fall one day, then never rise. Her mother knew that. Her step father knew that. And they had kept this from her in the hopes of sparing her from fate.

Dread threaded her every bone. But she would not give into it. Not ever. She would blaze brightly and never be forgotten. It wasn’t just senseless pain this….this- not a curse. This gift- it served a purpose. She served a purpose. She had been chosen by the Wheel for a task. Chosen to shape history.

“I have to go to the White Tower.” She said equal parts hope and apprehension. “I have to save the world.”

#WoT #Wheel of Time #WoT Fanfic #Wheel of time Fanfic #elaida do avriny a'roihan #drabble challenge #wot book spoilers #idk how far to tag cause their all vague and prophecy related #i'll go with TSR #TSR Spoilers #word count: 1972

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oddsandends-dirt-to-dust · 5 days ago

Text

The World Ender

Masterlist - (chapters, link to ao3 post, moodboard, and spotify playlist.)

I’m The World Ender, baby, and I’m comin’ for them

Word Count: 10k

Warnings (for part9): smut, infected, fire, bombs.

Warnings for smut: risky sex

A/N: late post my bad, I was suffering horribly, as usual.

chap’s long asf blame the smut, not me DX

——————————

PART 9 - Making Love On The Edge Of A Knife

You’d won already.

It hadn’t taken long for you to realize most of the restaurants were empty. Their chairs overturned; their tables scattered. Glass all over the floor, its glimmer muted by dust.

Glass was everywhere these days – one of the earliest human inventions – because windows were everywhere. People liked watching. They’d left the wild, left nature, and turned to buildings.

But, still, windows. For watching their old home sway and flutter, watching the things they used to live among – birds and bugs and more – still roaming around the outside, while they sat in their buildings and pretended to be better. Pretended to be smarter, and more important.

Glass, one of the earliest human inventions, and yet so fragile. So easy to shatter, so easy to turn to sharp edges and brittle points.

The outside hadn’t liked the buildings, nature hadn’t liked the arrogance. It had shattered the thin, fragile sheet of the windows we watched through, let that plague rush in to reclaim.

A reminder.

You’re not so special, nature had said. You’re not so important.

Your boots had crunched a haunting melody as you tottered through the restaurants that were empty – aside from those wrecked tables and chairs, and that glass, and the pictures on the wall, and the blood stains on the hardwood.

The important things were all gone.

But. The Italian place.

That fancy restaurant was just as wrecked inside. And the kitchen was dusty, decaying, its metal furnishings smothered by muck.

But the kitchen was full of cans.

It brought a smile to your mouth, finding cans of pasta, and soup, and vegetables in fancy sauces inside a fancy Italian restaurant. But you were five thousand miles from Italy, in a little rural town – so it made you smile, but you weren’t surprised at the inauthenticity.

And you’d won, you’d found ravioli, the world had brought the opportunity right to your hands, as usual.

Then you’d hit the stores.

And those were empty of important things too. The clothing still hung around, ragged and forgotten. And the children’s toys, the household decor, the meaningless crap still laid in blankets of dust on buckling shelves.

But the books, the toilet paper, the shampoos, the toothpaste.

All gone.

In the hardware store; the tools, the nails, the planks of wood.

All gone.

In the pharmacy; the medication, the bandages, the antiseptic creams, the important stuff.

All gone.

Either this town had been cleared of people and supplies in the early days.

Or, someone was here. Someone who really hated Italian food.

You hadn’t mused for long. First, you’d trailed over to Ellie’s side of the street, sticking your head into shattered windows until you’d found her. You’d told her you were checking out a building in the trees to the south-east.

“Why?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“You know I don’t like your surprises.”

“Well, that’s why I’m checking it out first. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Yet – was the part you hadn’t added.

Then you’d left the street with the carnival and the colors, the light rain shrouding your cheeks in a loving mist.

You’d checked out a line of houses, eight to be exact.

And they’d held books, and toilet paper, and toothpaste, and cans of food, and photo albums, and cell phones, and meds.

Things people would bring with them, even during a sudden evacuation order.

And you’d narrowed your eyes. You’d finally left to scout the hiding building you’d spotted.

Because someone was here.

Someone who shared Ellie’s discomfort of routing through dead people’s belongings. Someone who didn’t share her fondness for ravioli.

Now your boots crunched on twigs and pebbles and dirt. You’d found the path at the end of a cul-de-sac, marked by a battered wooden post. There was a little sign nailed to the wood, adorned with words and an arrow pointing up.

Elkwood Library

It seemed fitting, that the building was a library.

The someone seemed to like books – one of the reasons you weren’t too concerned by their presence. The other being the undisturbed homes.

Sickness didn’t greed for art. Sickness didn’t respect boundaries, or the somber sacredness of death.

The trees around you were alive, not dark and clawed like the statues in the park. Their leaves were soft and fluttering, their bark chocolate brown and lined like a face full of age. They hovered over the path you walked, blocked the gentle rain.

You softened your footsteps as the path curved to the right ahead, your eyes trailing every little movement they caught. No people, yet, the trees were just alive in the wind. And little bugs flittered around, moving from trunk to branch to grass, buzzing spots of tremulous murk too small to see clearly.

You stopped behind one of those trunks, peeked around the corner. The path stayed dirt for a while, until it cut off abruptly and turned to ashy concrete. A wide lot that had once held vehicles, but was barren now.

You heard it then, the groans. The sputtering, wet agony that marked the presence of that iller kind of sickness. The smell came next.

Infected were in the library. Not the someone.

You were careful not to let your boots scuff as you approached the end of the path, where the trees ended too – and with them, your cover.

It had been so long it almost jarred you to see them.

The figures ambling around behind the wire fence in the distance, jerking and stumbling. Their faces starting to crack apart with fungus, their skin starting to boil with age. Walking around in aimless circles, clothing torn and stained with dark blood.

You imagined what they’d been thinking as they’d picked their outfits out that final day. Something useless and soaked in false hope, probably.

Because the library wasn’t a library anymore.

Of course, it hadn’t been a library for many long, aching years. But there was a faded sign hanging on the fence. A sign that made your chest tighten as you read it.

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”

Safe haven. All welcome. Find refuge.

There were giant vans towards the back, near the entrance to the brick building. You knew what they held – they were medic vans. And there were giant tents you were sure had once been blue, perched about the concrete. But they were dark and browned now, like most things, and they were ripped, and they were ruined.

The library was turned a refuge.

And the refuge was full of infected.

No need for solemn graves or gloomy headstones. The death walked around the place in clear view beneath the murky sky, still sobbing in anguish, still choking on their premature ends.

But it was nothing you hadn’t seen before – refuges like this one were as common as windows. As much a reminder as jagged, broken glass.

Nature’s reminder. Nature’s revenge. Turning the humans into plant as consuming as they had been. Sometimes you wondered if it was the sick already inside them warped and twisted and sprouting into fungus.

Nature had turned our greed against us.

Your eyes roved back and forth. There was something wrong with the fence on the furthest side of the building.

The fence was chain-link, with posts breaking its sleek sheeting every five feet or so. But in the space where one of those chain-link sheets should be, you were met with the rough sight of festering, rotten wood.

The planks from the empty shelves of the hardware store.

You wondered how the someone had managed to patch it up without riling the hoard. And why?

You supposed if they were making this hollow place a home, caging the storms of snapping teeth in one place would be a good idea.

Though, if it were you, you’d follow it up with a pretty, little bomb. Just to be safe.

Unless the someone wasn’t making the town a home. It was their home. And the people in the library turned refuge were their neighbors.

Your teeth grazed your lip.

You should leave the town soon. Because you were familiar with two reactions that came with encroaching upon sacred territory.

The ones who didn’t mind. And the ones who did.

And really, this could go either way.

The someone was solitary, clever, resourceful, took care in perfecting their little slice of the world. You found that kind of aloofness, that kind of effort, was often paired with fierce paranoia. And paranoia was one of the deadliest kinds of fear.

But the someone was also sensitive. They hadn’t reaped their neighbors, despite them being nothing more than walking corpses – wearing the mangled and perverse faces of things that used to be. The someone didn’t route through houses, as though they thought them shrines. And the someone was an aesthete. They collected books. They valued the words of their late peers. They valued art. And art was a tool of connection, a precious insight into the very heart of existence and perseverance, one of the most intimate kinds of love.

So, this could go either way. And you didn’t like taking risks, but you needed to change, so you should leave the town soon.

Now.

Just as you turned to leave, your eyes caught something plastered to the side of the brick building. Something big, and flashy. A poster – an utterly irresistible one at that.

You sighed.

The truck could wait thirty minutes.

Because life had done it again. And you had so won.

You had no doubt that, despite her words, Ellie would like this surprise.

The library, turned refuge, turned tomb, stared down at you like it was waiting.

For what, exactly, you couldn’t decipher.

You supposed it could be mourning. It could be angered. Or, it could be hopeful.

Because you were staring up at it like it was a library. Like it was full of knowledge, and art. Like despite its decay and the howling things it held, it knew you were entering to run your fingers along blossoms of words, find the one that sparked joy. It knew someone was going to read it, going to value it, it knew you found it important enough to brave certain death.

Because art was a tool of connection, it was an intimate kind of love, and that was exactly what you were thinking about as your eyes roved over its battered back. Its chipped bricks, its aching roof. Its shattered windows.

You pulled your mask from your bag, slotted it over your face. The place had fallen in the early days, which left more than enough years for spores to form.

The fence had been plastered flat to the wall of the library's back, shielding the windows of the ground floor. But the ones a little higher, they were clear. So, you wrapped your fingers around wire, careful not to rattle the fence, and you climbed slowly and silently.

Eventually you found yourself standing on the top rail, your stomach flush to the brick as you balanced, your mask scraping its rough surface. Your fingers met the lip of the windowsill above, and you felt flat shards of glass beneath them. The window had been smashed from the inside, perhaps in a bid for escape.

That was the other reason so many were shattered these days. Humans crawling out of the glass they’d created to divide, seeking the ancient safety of the trees to hide away in. Reduced to animals, once again. Reduced to the hunted, the prey.

You swiped the glass to each side gently, cleared the middle so you could get a good grip. Your next movements were smooth, strenuous but necessary, as you pulled yourself up until your chest was pressed against your knuckles. You used your feet to propel yourself further up the weathered brick, inching your hands forward one by one until your palms were flat against the wood.

You leaned forward, angling your head and shoulders into the broken window as your feet continued their crawl, eventually heaving one knee beside your hands. You grimaced, barely able to breathe through the tautness of your muscles.

The library was dim inside, due to the lack of light breaking through the clouds. The second level wasn’t a floor, but an interior balcony, and you couldn’t see much. There were two shelves perched beside the window, like a little hallway leading to the railing ahead.

And spores, yes. The little floaty things, ugly as ashes, coiling around open air and waiting to bring your lungs to ruin. Crueler than red berries, or poison ivy. You had to admire nature’s tricks. Had to admire its relentless retaliation.

Nature was a betrayed thing, like you.

You moved one of your hands to the inner sill of the window and crawled in, careful not to cut yourself on the spiked glass still stuck in the frame. You could hear the footsteps of infected below, staggered and unsure. Low growls made the hair on your arms stand, the sporadic bursts of screams sending your heart hurling. And the clicking. The echoic, chittering clicks that sounded like snapping bones, those made your stomach curl.

You didn’t like infected.

Obviously, you’d be hard pressed to find someone who did, but you weren’t a coward. You weren’t controlled by the little voice in your head, as old as the earth itself, that whispered fearful warnings of violent ends, injury, death.

Actually, you’d ignored that little voice for so long it had been replaced by different whispers.

You didn’t like infected because of their growling and their sobs, their empty eyes and their bleeding. Their jagged teeth, their stench of decay, their relentless hunger.

An infected could chase you for miles and never tire. One caress of their teeth and you were done for.

Maybe that was the part you didn’t like.

Because though you didn’t have a strong grip on who you were, had been, ever would be – you knew your morals. You knew your truths.

The thought of being stolen, your body changed but still holding your features – you didn’t like it. The thought of rotting on two feet, the thought of being invaded by the by beast of gluttony. You’d rather chew lead.

You shallowed your breathing, though it still came out in a hushed hiss through your mask, and slithered through the tenebrous air like you belonged. The shelves beside you didn’t hold what you were searching for, because they held books – their pages beige with age.

You reached the end of your little wooden hallway, eyes scathing the scene ahead through the film of your mask. The library beyond was huge. The balcony wrapped around three walls, lined with cases and books, dust and rot. The signs above them were decrepit, you were barely able to make out the words. But you were sure none of them had the letters you needed.

The floor below the railing of the balcony was a living picture of war.

And the library had lost.

A few shelves were knocked over, books lay wounded all over the floor, spitting paper that had long crumbled to dust. The other shelves were still upright, lined and organized like a troop, spanning the whole length of the floors. Apart from a large space in the very middle, taken over by sleeping-bags, blankets, empty water bottles and dented cans. And blood. It didn’t look like blood anymore, but you knew blood, knew how it blackened. And it was still shaped like blood, great patches and splatters and pools of it.

The victors walked their battlefield – though really, the infected stood as both winners and losers. What they truly were, were losers so thoroughly bested that the triumphant side had even conquered their bodies, and paraded them around like gore-smattered trophies.

It wasn’t an exact science, the thing that dictated when runners morphed to stalkers, stalkers to clickers, clickers to whatever the fuck that thing bumbling around down there like a ballooned ball of goo was.

Time was a factor, obviously. But there was something else.

The rough, blooming wreaths of fungus weeding its way across the walls was proof. There were a few outlines of mangled corpses within the bubbled, veiny mess – hosts who’d died, the virus choosing to use the last of its resources to sporulate.

That was the question wracking your mind as the runners-slash-stalkers, clickers, and the big guy swayed on the floor below.

Why did some die, some change, and some stay the same?

The answer could be some winding, twisting fragment of the virus’s DNA.

But your answer was the winding, twisting fragments of the human DNA, long forgotten within the claws and tendrils of cordyceps – the small fight the people still put up against the relentless rage of nature.

You thought, maybe, those invaded people were a factor in the evolution. That maybe, the runners were still runners because they were still running. Still trying to fight against the infection, still trying to cling to their bodies, refusing to be changed further by the beast that had stolen them.

Maybe the dead ones on the walls had given up.

Maybe the stalkers were hiding, from themselves and the things they used to be. Would rather sneak up on you than make you face the thing they were going to make you into. The thing they’d faced.

And maybe the clickers had given in. Let the beast have them, let it use their bodies, let it blind their eyes so they didn’t have to watch the world go by without them anymore.

And the big guy, the bloater, as Ellie called them...

You didn’t run into many in Wyoming; you’d find the more common strains on patrols. But she’d told you her stories of when she’d battled them in basements with Joel. You’d shared yours, though you didn’t have many. You’d both ended with the same conclusion – they were brutal.

So the bloaters, you thought, were angry. They wrapped themselves in a hardened shell, and equipped themselves with bombs of toxin, and they raged. They rampaged, they roared, and they ruined.

You couldn’t decide what you’d morph into. Nothing was the obvious answer, you’d sooner brace a bullet in your skull than turn. But in theory – a runner or a bloater. Those were your options.

Running or raging.

By the time your mind had finished its spiraling, your eyes had finished their examination. The comic section was at the back, hidden below the floor you were standing on.

Your helpful eyes had found a sign in better condition, hanging on the wall next to the open entrance doors, above the messy desk at the front. Your helpful eyes had also found the stairs no infected had bothered climbing, attached to the wall to your right.

It was simple. Use a trick from Ellie’s stories, one she’d shown you on patrols. Throw a book, distract the lurkers, find the comic, run back upstairs, fly out the window.

Simple, yes – but weak too. Though, so were most of your plans.

Could you really call them plans?

It was one of the parts of you more like a bloater. The part that charged into danger without a thought, just a bag of weaponry and an aim.

You reached behind you, inched the zipper of your backpack up, so slowly, until a space large enough for your hand to fit through was open.

Your fingers reached to the shelves for a book, a heavy one, a hardback, before the bloater in your head spoke up again and you paused.

A fire would be better.

You reached back into your bag, fingers fumbling awkwardly for the smooth bottle within. You found it, pulled it out. It was small, only half-full, but it’d work. You reached back in to find a scrap of fabric.

Ellie liked to make sure you each had a bottle for moments like these.

For Molotov's. Not for drinking. She’d chide.

You wondered how many of her tricks had been learned from her father. And how many of your own had been learned from yours.

As you opened the bottle, you wished you could drink some of the liquor within. You cursed the stupid mask on your face, stuffing the rag in its neck instead, let the liquid soak the bottom.

Then you paused. And you breathed. And you went over your plan, that was more like an aim, again. And you steadied yourself.

Your hand found your lighter. The lighter found its flame. The flame found the rag.

Questions swirled your mind as the rag glowed atop the bottle in your palm, sending smoke into the already devastated air. You wondered if the fire would spread through the library full of dried pages. You wondered if the someone would be enraged or relieved if it did. You wondered if the library would be. You wondered if the souls trapped in the cages of fungus and bone would be. Enraged or relieved?

An annihilation or a mercy?

You weren’t used to questioning.

You ducked behind the rail, aimed for the desk way in the distant front, and let the bottle fly. It landed with a crash and a beautiful, flaring bang of warmth and eagerness. The flame waved at you.

You crawled your way to the stairs.

And there was one question that didn’t skitter its way across your mind, even as the fire hissed and spat and crawled over the desk. Even as the infected roared to life, their feet thudding into the floor as they made for the light.

Was all of this worth it?

You made it down the stairs swiftly, watching as the infected from outside poured in, drawn by the noise. They circled the burning like cultists, at least sixty of them, some catching alight as they tried to grab the flames.

You disappeared into the rows of shelves, keeping an eye out for bent limbs beckoning from behind their wooden frames. It was darker down here, beneath the balcony’s floor, marred by dust and cobwebs. The smell of ancient death clawed its way into your mask.

You tread carefully over scattered books, keeping low as you made your way to the shelves against the back wall.

You found them then, the wood filled with thinner books, their covers bright despite their age. You palmed your knife in one hand and the issue you were here for in the other. Satisfaction warmed your chest as you bent low to stuff the thing into your backpack, the screams of the infected you’d bested fading into the black. Then you stood, slotted your bag onto your shoulders, turned to begin your trek back to the stairs.

You were halfway there when your boot hit something hard. You froze.

The someone was smart. They’d used a portable CD player to lure the infected inside while they’d worked on the fence. How had they turned it off?

No, they hadn’t turned it off. They were probably going to wait for the battery to die. But the battery hadn’t died. The frenzying infected must’ve knocked it off the shelf, jostling the insides just enough for it to shut up.

Until your foot had jostled it right back to life.

The thing was old, the music within long forgotten.

The thing was old, and it was angry. It was screaming.

The ancient player spewed sound into the air, grating screeches like the ones the truck had made when you’d took your knife to it. It stuttered, like it was pausing to breath. Then it went right back to roaring, it barked like a guard dog faced with an intruder.

Your foot flew forward again on instinct, kicking the thing away from you. Right to the base of the stairs.

You cursed, diving sideways – away from the noise and away from the stairs.

The infected jostled back to life right alongside the player, their mouths matching its raucous screams, their feet finding the wrecked floor once again. You crept through the maze of books, staying away from the open space in the middle, hoping none would take the same paths towards the noise as you were taking away from it.

If you made it to the doors, you could climb the fence or the vans. So that became your new aim, your body carving mindless turns and your eyes on the floor to prevent any further mishaps. But the library was swallowing you whole, the screeches within so loud you couldn’t tell where they were coming from.

Enraged then. The library was enraged – because reminders had to stick around to be able to remind, and your fire was rippling up the wall in the distance. Your fire was blocking the entrance doors, it was crawling around the carpet like you were. Your fire was swallowing the library and the library was swallowing you right back.

But you weren’t going to die. A thing like you could never die like this, with smoke billowing before the film of her mask, and screaming surrounding her, and growling too, and heat seeping through the paths of the shelves so fiercely you were sweating beneath your clothes.

Even as your mind collapsed in on itself and your body shrank with it, and your heart throbbed and your limbs weakened, you knew. You weren’t going to die here, because if the library couldn’t stand tall as a reminder, then it was going to make one out of you.

The fire was laughing.

Oh, hello again, it said. Remember me?

Your mind answered in pops and bangs, the sound of bullet casings tinkling to the floor.

Something bony thwacked against your mask, made your head buzz as the hit sank into your skull. You staggered back, gaze catching the screaming thing lurching for you again, and you plunged your knife into the side of its head. It squelched as you tore your blade free, splattering dark red onto sheet of polycarbonate over your eyes, the translucent barrier you’d covered your face with to hide from nature once again.

But nature had found you, as you plowed forward and came face to face with the fire that blocked the door, your eyes searching for a new escape and instead meeting the empty ones of the stolen.

YOU DID THIS

Your body jolted back, the heat of the fire slathering your spine. They were coming, charging back to the front of the library, charging back for you.

a reckoning – a wrecker and a ruiner. they’re going to eat you alive, consume, cage your soul in a battle of sickness and greed and revenge

Your gaze locked onto the row of shelves ahead. You broke into a sprint.

will it make a difference when they do? will it even matter?

You used the momentum to slam a boot into the first bookcase. It shuddered, books flying free as it toppled over and crashed into the one behind it. You braced your feet on the shelves, climbing the cases as they fell, crooked fingers tearing at your heels and heat tearing at your skin. The cases fell like heavy dominos before thudding against the back wall, the blow reverberating beneath you, and you didn’t need to look back to know the things were chasing – they were howling, they were clawing at the wood.

The balcony rose above and your legs tensed up before you flew, fingers grappling for the railing.

you can run all you want

You heaved yourself up and over, gaze locked on the smoke flowing through the window ahead. You swapped your knife for your gun as you fled forward, jumped onto the windowsill and turned at the mouth of your escape.

you can run and run and run

Gnarled fingers curled around the railing, barely visible through the smoke. The world behind glowed like an amber eye, unyielding and resolute. Then infected rose at the end of the bookcases, a clicker with its blindness and the bloater with its rage.

Loud, a bomb would be loud.

But you were used to being loud, and you weren’t going to hide from the person in this town. Because life wouldn’t let you, the bloater was amping up to charge and it’d follow you right out this window, and you didn’t have another bottle, or enough bullets. The someone would either be enraged or relieved, and you could stomach either one because you weren’t one to hide. So you shoved your hand into your bag, pushed past the comic, found one of the dwindling, jagged mounds at the bottom.

You slotted your gun into her holster, tore the pin free, threw your bomb at the bloater's feet just as it sent one of its own for your face.

Your body launched itself from the windowsill, calves ripping on glass. And then you were falling – you weren’t sure if it counted as falling since you were the one who jumped, but the air rushing past your mask and the ground rushing for your body didn’t seem to care. You were falling, until you landed, your feet hitting the ground first and sending achy lightning through your bones. You bounced onto your side next, but couldn’t feel the impact past the resounding, ground-shaking boom that tore through your body.

You pulled your hands over your head, curling into yourself as the library spat chunks of brick and wood down at you. It pattered over your back brutishly, made pockmarks in the dirt you were laying in.

After your senses came back, you felt the shockwaves from your fall shuddering up your legs, and the tingling burn on your flesh from the bloaters final fuck you that had landed when you had. The sickly green mess was lost in the dirt, dust, and smoke clouding the air.

You rolled over, pulling the mask from your face and blinking up at the dying building. The top floor had collapsed in, little flames poking their heads out from the remains, and a plume of inky smoke rose into the shrouded sky. Your burning and its water fought their own battle as the rain picked up.

You stood, wiping a hand over your stinging eyes. You pulled your bag off, shoved the mask in, and turned to the trees.

You made it to the end of the dirt path before you realized you needed to lie down.

Your ears were still ringing, your head swaying, and your back hurt.

is it all worth it?

You stopped in the middle of the cul-de-sac, stooped to the ground, pressed your back into it. The rain hit your face, spattering against your skin and soothing the aches.

You weren’t sure what had happened in the library, turned refuge, turned tomb, turned ruins.

A reminder, a reminder, a reminder.

Of what?

You went in there to find a gift for Ellie and left reeking of smoke, being jerked around by the crackling of fire and the growls of death and the pops of bullets. The screams in your memory blurred together, writhed behind your forehead until your temples throbbed and you wanted to let out a scream of your own.

The raindrops tapped on your cheeks like the world was taunting you. They rolled into your hair, into your mouth, into the hollows of your neck. The sky was aching a darker grey now, blotchy and bleak. You couldn’t tell if it was smoke or storm. Your eyelids fluttered against the downpour, collecting drops in their lashes like tears.

What did it all mean?

Your body hummed as the adrenaline faded out. You felt weightless. It didn’t matter; everything had worked out. You’d find Ellie, find the truck, find the end of the town, hopefully, without interference.

you're relentless

You splayed your arms out, let the rain patter over your throbbing bones.

“Y/n.” Her voice was loud, full of some kind of deepness you didn’t care to decipher.

You twisted your head, found Ellie jogging up the street toward you. She’d changed her shirt. She now adorned a ratty graphic tee, and a loose olive-green over-shirt, its sleeves rolled to her elbows. Thrown together carelessly, but it looked good on her.

Maybe you should find some new clothes too. Yours were in shambles, and they smelled. And the world was growing colder.

Ellie hovered over you; her face taut.

“Jesus, I thought you were dead.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“What? You saw me sprawled here cartoonishly on the concrete and thought I’d been struck down by God, or something?”

She scoffed in offence, her eyes trailing up and down your body.

“Well, why the fuck are you sprawled on the concrete?”

“I’m enjoying the rain.”

She stared at you pointedly.

“Oh, did this need a warning? Should I be holding up a sign that says ‘not dead, just batshit’?” You mocked, wiping a hand over your damp forehead.

“I heard an explosion.” Ellie said sternly, arching an accusing brow.

You clambered to your feet, dusting off your shirt.

“There were infected in the library.” You said.

Ellie froze before closing her eyes.

“Tell me you didn’t-”

“I had to.”

Her eyes found you again. She splayed her arms wide, shaking her head.

You bent to your backpack, the zipper cutting through the silence.

Her face changed as you pulled out your findings, the resignation shifting. Her mouth popped open, her eyes lighting up as they roved over the thing in your hand.

“You’re fucking kidding.” She laughed, quietly.

“Worth it, right?” You handed her the comic.

She took it, head swaying.

“If you died it would’ve been pretty fucked up.” Ellie twisted her head, a brow arching – the expression teasing now.

“You’ve been looking for that issue for two years, it was worth it.” You nodded, confirming your own question. Because she was smiling now, as she looked at you. She was smiling in the way that made your stomach warm.

Ellie pressed her tongue into her cheek, her fingers drifting over the cover admiringly.

“Okay...” She breathed. “You might be my favorite person again. I’m starting to remember why I like you so much.”

You hummed through your own smile, her jab bringing calmer memories to your mind.

The last time the seasons were edging toward their end, when you were just getting to know the girl beside you and she was just getting to know you. One patrol she’d traded her book for a comic, gaze entangled in it as you sat across from her on a fallen log.

You’d half-felt like you were in a dream. Watching the wild oat grass sway in the breeze, the wilting trees that cradled. The towering things in the distance you weren’t sure were cliffs or hills, and the mirage of indomitable mountains behind them putting them to shame. The blue skies, the endless clouds. You’d never seen anything like it. Never been anywhere so open, so gentle, so effortlessly alive.

You’d felt like you were something living then, something that could dream. Discovering parts of yourself you thought were long gone – parts you weren’t sure had ever even existed – in that little town that shouldn’t exist, but did anyway.

Your eyes had kept drifting towards Ellie, reading as always, unable to quell the suspicion that she brought those books and comics on patrols so she’d have an excuse as to why she didn’t talk. She didn’t need an excuse – you were a stranger. And you felt like a stranger. But she was strange too.

She didn’t seem the same as the others in the town. So, you’d asked what she was reading. And her eyes had flicked up to meet you, and you’d felt like you were on the precipice of something unspeakable and incomprehensible. Something new. Something important.

Ellie answered your question, her demeanor as cool as the breeze but not as flowing. Then you’d told her about your own collection of brightly illustrated stories, and she’d softened a little.

And everything had just felt so easy, so different. It was nice to pretend for a while that you were a person who lived, and not a thing who killed.

It was funny, looking at her now as she flicked through the comic – looking at her now that you knew her. And she was just as incomprehensible, just as important as you’d predicted. You almost felt sick at the weight of it.

You wondered if Ellie was thinking about that moment too. Her smile was too tender to be one of joy or excitement, even though her eyes were on the pages. She closed the comic, wiped a wrist over its cover, smearing the raindrops that had dampened its surface.

“Time to bounce?” She asked, stooping to slot the comic into her bag.

“The houses have some good shit in them, we should hit a couple before we leave.” You said. “Wanna eat first?”

Ellie nodded as she stood.

“What’s on the menu?”

You raised your brows, a coy smile spreading your lips.

Ellie huffed, her eyes narrowing.

“You asshole. You found ravioli, didn’t you?”

You tilted your head.

“I win.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved a hand, turning to walk down the street. “That’s just what I wanted you to think.”

“Sore loser?” You followed after her, wiping raindrops from your cheek. It was a pointless action, more were sure to follow, but they tickled.

“I got a brand-new comic to shut you out with, and my favorite canned delicacy. And you’re the schmuk who went traversing through ghoulish cannibals for them, I didn’t even have to lift a finger.”

You tutted, bumping her with a shoulder.

“A sore loser, and ungrateful. Aren’t you a joy?”

Ellie bit into her smile, eyes roving the town ahead thoughtfully.

Maybe you should fix up a town. Though there were bigger buildings, easier to fortify – maybe you could find an emptier state and settle down after your trip to the observatory.

Or maybe you shouldn’t make plans. You were a thing that settled for a simple aim for a reason, this world had a habit of tearing up plans and stomping them into the dirt. And you didn’t like staying in one place for too long, anyway.

Ellie reached up and put a hand on your head playfully, urged your face to turn to her.

“I am grateful, thank you. But you’re a fucking idiot.” She said, leaning in.

You batted her hand away.

“I’m not, actually.”

She sighed, quirking her head.

“Okay fine, you’re super smart but totally batshit.”

“You know what they say...” You grinned. “There’s no great genius without a touch of madness.”

Ellie scoffed, gaze scanning the houses around.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She said, walking onto the cracked sidewalk. “Why’d you come all the way out here, anyway?”

She pushed open the little white gate and walked into the overgrown yard. A concrete path peeked out from beneath the thick brush, leading to a ruby-red door – though its paint was peeling sorrowfully.

“There’s someone here. The library was pretty detached, I wanted to scope it out.” You said, following her up the path.

“Wait, what?” Ellie stopped walking, turned to you.

“Well, I don’t know if they’re still here, but-”

“You knew there might be someone in town and didn’t think to let me know?” She cut in. “What if the fucker blindsided me?”

Your flesh went cold.

You stuttered, before finally landing on a reason. Though it felt like an excuse; it sounded empty and cracked. But it was your reason.

“I was focused on figuring it out. I was distracted.” You shook your head, nausea swirling. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Relax.” Ellie held a palm up. “I’m just saying, intel is intel, share it with the class next time.”

You paused at her impassive reaction.

Her eyes narrowed.

“You really think I’d let some fucker blindside me? I’m glad you realized I can handle myself.”

You stared at her for a moment. Ellie could take care of herself, yes, you’d realized. But... you were also starting to realize that her incessant need to prove herself drove her into worryingly dangerous situations.

Like following an aggressive, homeless derelict into an aggressive, home-less, derelict city and beyond, for example.

“I’m- I’ll clue you in next time.” You shook your head. “I just wasn’t sure, and when I was, they didn’t seem like much of a threat.”

Ellie nodded, turning back to the house. She trudged through the weeds, the grass swaying around her calves, and wiped a hand over an unmarred spot on the cracked window before peering in. Satisfied with her brief check, she made for the front door.

“Explain.” She ordered.

And you did, talking her through your findings as you began combing through the house, collecting supplies and trying not to look too hard at pictures or tiny shoes or ominous, long-dried blood spatters.

The someone was staring to get on your nerves. Alive or dead, their choices had really fucked you over. Couldn’t they have just let the infected roam the streets like a normal struggling survivor? How nature intended? Did they have to be such a perfectionist, such an idealist?

You’d stuffed your bags with goods from the houses, and on your way back to the truck you’d stumbled across the town hall. It was a big white building – adorned with pillars and other posh crap. You’d just wanted to see if the inside was more interesting. And it was, you supposed. You were halfway up the grand staircase when infected had come flooding into the foyer. You were cornered, no ammo, had no choice but to run. And you’d made it – though, not without a scare.

But it was fine. You’d sunk a knife into the face of the thing grappling Ellie, sent it toppling down the stairs.

The someone would definitely morph into a stalker. So desperate to carve their little slice of life back into some semblance of normality, hiding the infected away in buildings while they sat and read their books and ate nasty non-fancy cans of food. And they seemed to be hiding from you too, hadn’t come running at the sound of your explosion as Ellie had.

You tapped your fingers on your thigh, blinking through the dark of the little closet you’d stuffed yourselves into. Yeah, you were hiding too, but it wasn’t a choice; it was a necessity. You could hear the infected stumbling around the little office the closet belonged too, yelping and snarling.

Stuck, for the moment.

A quiet shuffling muffled the growls, and then a flashlight clicked on. Ellie pointed it to the wall, away from the door. The closet wasn’t much of a closet; it was small, empty – aside from you. Just four blank walls, a carpet, and a shoddy door. The jarring white circle of light against one of those empty walls, and a couple of cans on the floor that Ellie had laid out.

The infected had lost their lunch, but you hadn’t.

She shoved one toward you with a foot. You smiled up at her once you’d read the label. She shrugged, sending you a small smile back, but her face wasn’t all hers – there was a roughness to her features. Like the close-call with the infected had shaken her, though she should be well used to them by now.

You peeled open the can of fruit salad carefully, sipped the juice within. It was tart, but didn’t taste rotten. Ellie followed suit, and you both scarfed down your lunch in silence.

Then it was back to waiting. Once the room beyond your closet grew silent like you, maybe you could slip out a window.

Ellie’s eyes were on the carpet, her fingers fiddling with a loose thread hanging from a rip in her jeans. The rest of her body was still.

The close-call had gotten to you too, the sharp memory of those teeth so close to her neck still rang through your mind – but you weren’t one to dwell, and you thought she wasn’t either.

Her fingers moved, trailing up her arm and rubbing mindlessly at her tattoo. She’d gotten it to cover a scar, she’d said. Scars were stories, they were trophies, you couldn’t understand why someone would want to cover one up – but you couldn’t deny, the artwork curled around her forearm was beautiful too.

Ferns – ancient, enduring, represent protection and new life. Associated with healing and good luck. They reproduce using spores which, like their sinister fungal kin, are dangerous to inhale. But the plants are edible, and some types of ferns can be used topically to treat wounds, among other benefits when consumed.

And moths – vapid little creatures but determined nonetheless. A symbol of transformation. Ugly to most, but most weren’t looking hard enough.

You wondered what they meant to her. You wanted to ask, but the look in her eyes was far too haunted, stole the words right from your mind.

Instead, you leaned forward, pushed your hands in front of the flashlight splayed on the floor. You pressed your palms together, snapped your pinkies up and down. Your dog barked silently on the wall.

Ellie’s eyes shot to it, narrowing slightly.

You twisted your hands, contorting your fingers awkwardly until the shadow looked like a rabbit.

She rested her face on a hand, a smile tugging at her lips. It looked more genuine this time.

Your next move was a little more complicated, took you a few tweaks to master. Ellie’s brows pinched together.

“Witch.” You whispered.

Her shoulders twitched with laughter as she scrubbed her hand over her eyes.

“Those are terrible.” She whispered back.

You scoffed quietly, dropping your hands.

“My fingers are magic, you know this.” You smirked, leaning back.

Ellie threw you a twisted look. She sat with her back pressed into the wall, her legs bent at the knees in front of her, parted slightly. The picture of relaxation now, despite the muffled growls still emanating from behind the door. But it seemed your distraction had worked.

“Stop pretending you’re so above dirty jokes.” You chided, rolling your eyes.

She flattened her face as she glared at you, though you could see her mouth resisting the tug of a smile.

“I am.”

You crawled forward, standing on your knees before her. You rested your hands on her knees, dragged them down the insides of her parted thighs. You paused at the bottom to squeeze the plushy flesh, your nails grazing denim. Ellie stared up at you, that beguiling smile finally breaking onto her face.

“Cause you’re just so innocent, right?” You taunted in a breathy whisper.

“Cause I’m not a nympho like you.” Her lowered voice rumbled.

You narrowed your eyes, repeating your movements to caress her thighs languidly. She didn’t break your heated stare – it seemed her little bout of flustering had subsided already. You sighed despondently, a smirk following soon after as something warm and tingling rose in your stomach at the challenge in her gaze.

“So, you don’t want to hear me talk about how I’ve been thinking of you eating my pussy all day?” You whispered, thumbs massaging the crevice of her thighs.

Ellie still didn’t balk from your eyes, though hers flickered slightly. Her tongue slid out to wet her lips as she shook her head softly. You leaned close into her face, dropping your gaze to her mouth.

“How pretty you look between my legs? Or how pretty you are between yours?” You stroked a thumb firmly up her clothed cunt as you murmured the words.

Her breath hitched subtly, and your smirk stretched into a small grin. You left your thumb there, caressing lighter swipes up and down the seam of her jeans, as you brushed your face past hers. You let your nose trail down to Ellie’s jaw, pressed a kiss to the hollow beneath before you hummed against her skin in question.

“You’re an asshole.” Her tight voice made the flesh under your lips buzz.

You pulled away from her, dragged both your hands up her thighs.

“You don’t want to, fine.”

Your words weren’t bitter – if she wasn’t in the mood, she wasn’t in the mood.

But you could see her face again. You could see the lust in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks warm despite the cool illuminance of the flashlight. Ellie watched you for a moment before her hands flew up and caged your face. She pulled your lips down to hers, kissed you roughly.

She opened up and the wet of your mouths met, hot and smooth. The hunger in her touch made your clit pulse and you pressed closer, stumbling slightly as you moved a knee between hers. She straightened her leg against the floor so you could comfortably straddle her thigh.

Ellie’s hands moved to your sides, fingers rumpling your shirt as she slid her palms up and down the skin of your waist. Her chin bumped yours, her lips clamping down to suck on your bottom one as your hands skimmed up her shoulders, cradling the neck that arched up to meet you.

Her pulse thrummed beneath your fingers, the dark closet fading away as the heat and corporeal silk of her skin encompassed you. All yours, your tongue sliding between her lips and caressing hers, your breaths mingling, your chests flush and humming.

Chittering growls seeped into your perfect moment, pulled a question to your mind.

What would Ellie morph into?

Her hands tightened on your flesh, lips swirling together before her tongue stroked your top lip. You pushed into her, her head anchored against the wall, sucked your lips around her tongue. Your mouths met again; your fingers tangled in her hair.

No, the girl beneath you couldn’t be stolen, her lithe body, her finding fingers, her soft lips. You couldn’t imagine her ever being anything but that – anything but her. The heart you could almost feel through her clothes, the clever eyes, the playful smirk. A thing so alive could never die.

You rolled your hips onto Ellie’s thigh, sighing at the feel of it against your pussy. Her hands slid up your back, fisting in your shirt like she wanted to pull it off.

The growls grew louder, bounced against the wood of the door.

Ellie turned her face, her lips dragging against yours. Her breathing was ragged as her gaze roved over the only thing between you and the things, hesitantly.

You placed a kiss on her cheek, brought your mouth back to her ear.

“We just have to be quiet.” You murmured, the vitality of her cushioning your worries. “First one to moan loses.”

Her head leaned into yours as you slathered kisses beneath her jaw.

“First one to moan attracts a pack of infected that’ll rip us apart.” She mumbled, her voice caught between annoyance and arousal.

You smiled. The infected didn’t stand a chance. And neither did she.

“Chance to redeem yourself. Scared you’ll lose?”

Fingers tangled in your hair, brought your face back to hers. Her other hand roamed up your torso, cupped your tit and squeezed.

“You’re funny.” Ellie breathed sanguinely, then her lips were on yours again.

Your hand dropped to her jeans, tugged them open, slipped inside. You smoothed your fingers past the mound of her pubes, down into the folds of her pussy. Her breath trembled at the contact of your cool fingers, her hand lowering instinctively to mirror your movements.

The first swipe of her fingers against you was reverential, sweeping down to collect your wetness before moving up to the flesh above your clit. The pressure of her fingertips stayed there, her wrist tugging against the fabric of your pants as she dragged her hand back and forth teasingly. You sucked in a breath at the way it made your insides tingle, sliding your own fingers over the silky plumpness of her labia.

Ellie’s fingers moved lower then, stroking your clit as her other hand moved to your jaw. You sighed against her mouth, had to inwardly remind yourself to be quiet. It felt like she was touching the very soul of you – you could feel every ring of her fingerprint, every caress awakening your body, your blood warming in your veins, your heartbeat echoing, your brain wholly focused on her.

You brought your fingers to her hole, drew circles around it mindlessly. It was almost impossible to concentrate on kissing her and teasing her with the simmering pleasure rolling from your core.

Once you felt her growing wetter you circled her more firmly, massaging the slick flesh around her clenching hole and reaching your thumb up to drag a wide ring around her clit. Ellie let out a strained breath, her lips pausing on yours.

She sped her hand, bumping into your clit in a ravaging rhythm. Your stomach clamped down, your head falling into her neck as you grit your teeth. Your hips bared down against the friction, your nails clawing at her shoulder.

You moved your glossy fingers to her clit finally, working light circles over the swollen bud. Ellie’s breath hitched, her thigh shifting beneath you as she parted them, her hips bowing up. Even as sparks flashed beneath your eyelids, even as the muscles of your abdomen coiled up, you didn’t speed your fingers. You stuck with the feather-light touches, sucking at her neck as she shuddered below you. Your teeth grazed her skin.

“Are you even trying to win?” Ellie mocked; voice thick with prurience.

You resisted the urge to grin, detaching your mouth from her neck.

“It just feels so good.” You lied.

Her fingers rubbing over your swollen clit did feel mind-numbingly amazing, but that wasn’t why you were toying with her. You were playing the long game, knew how to make her need it so bad she’d crumble. So, you stayed with your crawling pace, light caresses.

But you nearly lost it when Ellie started trailing her fingers up and down your neck, the ones on your pussy grinding down harder. You shivered, biting down on your lip until it hurt, anything to distract from the torturous pleasure of her hands.

She was starting to crack. Her hips rolled into your hand, her breaths quivering. She wanted more. You didn’t give it to her. You dropped your fingers back to her hole, resumed your teasing movements.

“You’re so wet.” You whispered, the creamy gloss of her arousal coating your fingers almost too much to bear, the slick sound of her pussy so loud in the quiet. You squeezed your thighs around her hand, couldn’t even trust yourself to breath without giving in to the groans threatening in your chest. God, she was ruining you.

“Yeah, you think?” Ellie bit out, her hand wrapping around your thigh and pulling you open again.

A shaky sigh slipped from your lips as you drew a single finger over her clit, achingly slow. Her body trembled, a breath stuttering from her lips. You let your finger trace her in lingering, delicate circles until her hand tightened painfully on your thigh, her hips pushing up against you.

Without warning you quickened your pace, felt Ellie’s head fall back, a gasp breaking from her throat as her muscles tensed up beneath you. You whirred your fingers faster, pressing hard, and her body jerked, hips bucking up. Her free hand flew to your bicep, fingers curling in. A guttural moan curled from her chest.

You panted a laugh, lifting your lips to her ear.

“I win. Again.”

She didn’t respond – the hand in your underwear faltered, fingers twitching, stuttering. You pulled back just enough to watch her.

Her neck arched against the wall, those heady brows knitted, blush lip caught between her teeth. The dim light carved shadows along her face, pooling beneath the jut of her freckled cheekbones. She was trying to hold it in – you saw it in the way her breath stalled, the sharp exhales that broke free in uneven bursts. The way her eyes screwed shut, lashes trembling. The way her body jolted subtly with your movements.

“This what you needed, baby?”

Her stomach spasmed, hips arching into your hand as a low, desperate hum caught in her throat.

“Like being spoiled, huh?” You murmured, delighting in your victories but delighting even more in the euphoric set of her features, how she crumbled for you.

You were the spoiled one, the ruined one, the stolen one – the one pressing pecks to her sallow neck, the one making her shiver with rapture, the one haunted by her hallowed hues and sonorous voice, morphed by her presence into a thing you didn’t recognize.

Ellie pressed a palm into the floor to steady herself, her mouth widening – little breathless uhs falling out. You rocked your hips into her hand, chasing an answer to the swell threatening in your core at the sight of her, the feel of her delicate flushing skin beneath your fingers.

You looked down to the bulge of your hand in her jeans, stretching the fabric, revealing her toned v-line, the auburn hair in its midst trailing to the mouth of her wanting. Your fingers roamed down again, prodding into her pussy, her hips swirling as you teased. Her wetness leaked onto your fingers, a kiss of warmth, a beckoning promise.

You slid yourself inside finally, her tight walls swallowing you to the knuckles and clenching. Her eyes rolled, blissful white between dark, fluttering lashes.

“Shit...” Ellie choked out lowly, resting a forearm over her face as you curled your fingers and massaged the puffy flesh within. Her lips pulled into an inviting parted pout, her voice higher now, more desperate, with a whispered, “h-holy shit.”

You pounded your fingers harder at that, the length of your thumb slipping between her lips, up and down over her clit with the movement. Ellie was writhing now, her chest heaving and vibrating with cut-off moans.

You pushed her arm off her face, tipped her chin until that pretty pout was flush with your own. Her hand shifted to cup your pussy, dragging back and forth lazily like it was more for her own pleasure than yours. You ground into her palm, letting hushed moans of your own spill into her mouth.

Her thigh squeezed in as her viscid walls shuddered, eyes opened half-lidded to meet yours – blown-out and needy. Her wetness soaked your fingers, dripped down your hand. You applied more pressure with your thumb, flicking over her clit with vicious precision. Her eyes flicked to the door as she shivered.

“Oh... God. Fuck,” Ellie’s hand wrapped around your arm, “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.” Her rumbling voice shook with urgent plea, her restraint fracturing.

Your own need made your head swim, hips rocking faster into her hand as the pleasure coiled up in your stomach. Your hand slid to her jaw, forced her gaze to stay on you.

“I got you, baby, go ahead.”

Her face scrunched with the ache of trying to stave off the ecstasy her body was so carnally craving. Her pussy clamped down around your fingers, hips twitching.

“I can’t-” She trembled, mouth widening, brows knotting together as her muscles locked up – the thigh beneath you straining – so clearly on the edge. “I can’t, I’m gonna...”

“Just look at me,” you breathed, “focus on me, I got you, I promise.”

Her glazed eyes on you, her palm pressing up into your pussy, your teeth snagging your lip. Your skin burned, that ardent swirling flooding your gut so good. Nothing else existed but the girl below you – hauntingly lodged in your mind – and your fingers lodged in her.

“Good fuckin’ girl, Els.” You purred, thrusting through the tautness of her walls and knocking into that gummy spot that made her eyes roll from you again, her clit pulsing under your thumb. Ellie shuddered, sucking in a sharp gasp as the weight of her head lolled into your hand.

“Oh my... god.” She mewled, perhaps too loud, but you’d ignored her warning. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

She was babbling now; half-formed, whispered words spilling from her lips. tangled with gasps and curses. Her abs tensed beneath the fabric of her shirt, muscles flexing as she came, her thigh jolting into yours in a desperate, involuntary motion. Her hand found your back, clutching, pulling, needing you closer. You pressed soft, adoring kisses to the corner of her mouth, tasting the syrup of fruit on her heavy breaths, feeling the shudders wracking her body as her orgasm ebbed and abated.

Ellie slumped against the wall, spent and boneless, her cheeks flushed. A contented sigh ghosted past her lips as you finally freed your fingers, the heat of her still lingering on your skin.

Her attention – hazily, hungrily – shifted back to the hand in your underwear, her fingers fondling through your swollen folds.

Then, it was her turn to spoil you. Her digits on your clit, back to their lewd caresses, dragging tear-jerking bliss through your veins. Your body curved into her, hands roaming her chest and kneading the perky flesh of her tits. You panted into her skin, her other hand skimming up and down your back.

You felt her pause.

“Wait, you hear that?” She whispered, her hand slowing, face turning to the door.

You didn’t care if the things were halfway through it – the tension wracking your body was so close to snapping you were dizzy with it, your hips moving instinctively, chasing the tug.

“Don’t stop, Ellie, please.” You whimpered. “I’m so close.”

She sighed, that familiar resignation or awe, you couldn’t decipher.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, you know that?” Were the words that followed, purred low and raspy, awe abundant for sure.

“Uh-huh,” you sobbed as her pace accelerated back to an eye-rolling rhythm. Your nails tore into her clothed shoulders, dampened forehead resting fitfully on her neck. “Uhh, you love it.”

An amused huff warmed your hair, her hand trailing up to cup the base of your skull.

“Love this pussy, wish I could eat it like you been wanting.”

Your thighs clenched, her words flaring the sparks of ardor flickering through your core.

“Maybe I’ll let you.” You huffed out. “Next time’s my call, you lost.”

Ellie’s chest buzzed as she hummed.

“You cheated.”

“No, j-just smarter.” You sighed.

The side of her face pressed into yours, pinning your head in the crook of her neck. Her voice came honey-smooth, yet edged with something rougher, something possessive.

“Well, I like you better like this. All dumbed-out and making a mess on my fingers.”

The tone hit like a spark to dry kindling. White flickered behind your eyes, carnal heat snapping through you relentless, washing the fight from your brain. Your lips parted in a silent cry; whimpers muffled against her sweat-slicked skin.

Your release crashed into you, ecstasy barreling through your body, the knot of your muscles unraveling in deep, pulsing waves of throbbing pleasure. You tremored atop her, wracking with after-shocks, thighs twitching where they pressed into her own.

Ellie worked you through it, fingers teasing, coaxing, milking every last shudder. Her free hand slid up, cradling the back of your head, thumb stroking soothing circles against your nape as you sagged into her.

And then, with that familiar cocky drawl, she chuckled.

“Do I at least get a consolation prize?”

She pulled her hand from your pants, fingers glistening, smug satisfaction etched across her face.

“The things I do to you when next time comes will be your consolation prize.” You promised breathlessly, still catching your bearings.

Ellie’s gaze roamed your face – interest piqued and thoughts surely wondering.

You gave her a slow, taunting smile in return, rising on unsteady knees to zip your fly. She reached for your hips, fingers digging as if to pull you back down, but something in her expression shifted.

Her gaze flicked to the door.

“What?”

Her lips flattened, eyes flickering with something sharp like suspicion.

“It’s been quiet.”

You broke out of her grasp and turned to your bags, made sure everything was tucked safely inside – ready to sling over your shoulders.

“Good, they must’a got bored and went back downstairs. Now we can bounce.” You said, handing Ellie her backpack.

“Yeah, I guess.” But she shook her head, wet her lips. “It’s just – earlier I thought I heard...” She squinted.

“What?”

She shushed you, eyes still on the door, her head twisting as she strained to listen.

A second passed. And then another.

Your ears caught it then. A noise, soft, muffled – but there.

The hair on the back of your neck rose as footsteps thudded on the carpet outside the door. Slow. Unhurried.

Your spine prickled with ice.

“Heard what, Ellie?” You urged.

She glanced at you, and in her expression, the same apprehension you felt curling in your chest.

“Music.”

The apprehension fled your lungs, chased away by a surge of adrenaline. You stood, eyes latching onto the door just as the handle began to turn.

“It’s not infected.” You snapped.

The door creaked open an inch, and you were waiting. Stepping back, you lifted your knee and slammed your boot into the wood, hard. The door crashed open, knocked something flying backwards into the office beyond.

Your someone thudded to the carpet like his boots, with a resonant groan and a hand splayed on his face.

You were already moving – gun in your palm, aimed at the face beneath the aged hand, finger twitching on the trigger as you stalked forward.

Deep brown eyes peeked from behind a finger before he dropped his hand. His face was aged too, lined and scarred like the tree trunk, worn but not menacing. Even as he drew his gaze up, scanning the length of your body, he seemed more amused than alarmed – or hungry.

“Shoot first, ask questions later,” that dulcet voice chirped, his chin dipping, “I like it.”

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