to read later

 She tries to shake off the woman, but she only tightens her grip, and it’s not until she screams again that she lets go. It happens in a blur. One moment the woman is on her arm and the next she’s taken away by one of those things. She can’t even process what they look like because they move so fast. 

 She stumbles backwards as a car alarm sounds and she only just manages to duck in enough time to avoid being crushed as the airborne vehicle flies overhead, crashing into the building behind her. Her teeth catch her bottom lip and she whimpers, holding her head in either of her hands. Screams sound and die, wheels screech, vehicles crash, windows shatter, people are torn apart and it’s all just too loud. 

 She sinks to her knees in the middle of the chaos-ridden street and covers her ears, the hot water in her eyes falling fast down the apples of her cheeks. She feels utterly alone and only now does the weight of her family’s abrupt deaths begin to seep in, like poison injecting itself into her veins and wearing down her bones. 

 She wonders if this is it— if today is the day she dies. 

 She wonders if she should just stay here: on the ground, unmoving, waiting for death to take her. 

 It’s harder to breathe than ever now and she can’t calm herself down, can’t even focus on inhaling a steady breath. The ground quakes below and she thinks something explodes, but it’s hard to hear over the ringing in her ears. She only thinks to duck until she faces the ground as smoke pervades the air and ash falls and all she can see is gray. Her hearing is only just coming back to her when she hears a scream— whether it was her own or somebody else’s, she’s uncertain— but all she knows is in the next moment, everything is black. 

 The world is still black when she hears her name. She stirs and thinks it must be death calling upon her but then she hears her name again and it sounds… real. Still, she does not open her eyes, lingering in that state between waking and oblivion. 

 The voice calls her name again and suddenly it sounds… familiar. She’s heard it before but she’s unsure where. She must be dead, she thinks. 

 But is the afterlife supposed to feel so… real? As in, she feels the warmth of fabric above her and thinks it must be a blanket, the cushion of what she can only think can be a pillow beneath her head. She can feel her feet, so she moves them, and she can feel something soft underneath them, something her entire body can feel. It must be a mattress she sleeps on but how when only a moment ago, her knees were on the asphalt of a crumbling street?

 Her name is called again and this time, she feels a weight on her shoulder, a hand. It suddenly registers that she isn’t in the city at all but rather somewhere else entirely different and her eyelids snap open at the realization. A shadow looks over her and she pushes herself to sit upright, her throat tightening as she tries to blink the blurriness away from her vision.

 “Hey!” The voice calls again, the hand on her shoulder firmer. The silhouette before her warps and moves and it must be the source of the voice but her muscles remain taut with panic. “It’s me! It’s just me.”

 She tries to draw air into her lungs but it’s hard when she can hardly make out where she is and the hand falls from her shoulder to instead find her cheek, pulling her face towards the shadow. Her chest rises and falls with her breaths as she continues trying to make out the face of the shadow before her. 

 “It’s me!” The voice says again. “It’s Eric!”

 Eric. 

 The shape in front of her finally materializes and indeed, it is Eric. His brows are drawn in concern, his big, signature doe eyes round and searching hers. Her mouth feels dry and it opens and closes multiple times before he places his hand on her chest, right over her pounding heart. She glances down to his palm, watching as it rises and falls with her breaths before his other hand reaches for her chin. 

 Their eyes meet and for a moment, it’s like the world stills and it is only him she can see. His eyes are so dark a brown that they seem to merge with the sea of black in its midst and she thinks she will lose herself if she stares too long. His lips move to form the words “breathe” and “it’s over now, you’re safe” and it seems easier now that she’s rapt in his eyes, shining like dark topaz. 

 Her chin rises as she inhales and she focuses on his hand on her chest as her head dips with her exhale. Air floods her lungs and the world begins to turn again.

 “Okay?” Eric asks carefully, his hand no longer on her chest but still hovering above just in case. She takes another deep breath before she nods, sniffing. It’s only now set in that she was sleeping and she was living a nightmare, or rather, reliving her nightmare. 

 It’s been three months since day one, since the nightmares began and every day since has been long, some longer than others. Every day since the first sort of happened in a blur, but she remembers the day she met Eric like it was yesterday. 

 She remembers the boat, the boy with the cat who she’d just watched escape death before he swam to his new beginning. She remembers the conversations they had on the (what felt like at the time) seemingly never-ending boat ride, the vow they didn’t speak aloud but seemed to silently agree on that they’d stick together, and they did, even when they arrived on the island. She remembers it all and so she pulls the boy in front of her into her until she can rest her head on his shoulder, fingers clutching his white t-shirt. 

 His arms wrap around her middle and hold her close, his breath warm as it threads through her hair, seeping down to her scalp. Her nails burrow into his shirt, deep enough to snag skin underneath and her heart pounds against her ribcage, dread creeping up her spine at the realization that she doesn’t want to let go. When he inevitably begins to pull away, she sinks her nails into his shoulders like the claws of a cat and a crease forms between his brows. 

 “What is it?” He asks and she swallows, brows pinched together. “Will you stay with me?” She questions and his expression softens, nodding as he lets go of one of her shoulders to gesture with his thumb behind him. 

 “Yeah, you know I’ll always be right over there,” he says, referring to the small sofa bed across the room. He gives her bicep a reassuring squeeze and turns, moving to pull away again but she finds his hand, clasping it between hers as tight as she possibly can. 

  “No, I mean will you…” she pauses, sighing as blood bites her cheeks, filling them with color. “…will you lay with me?” She finishes quieter, his hand growing warm in hers. 

 He turns to face her again and when their eyes meet, silence strings between them. She swears she can see him connecting the dots until realization washes over him and finally, he understands. He blinks again, once down to the bed and once to the open space beside her. On his next blink, color floods his cheeks and he nods, lifting up the blanket to slide underneath it. Their legs touch for the briefest of moments and either of their breaths hitch. His skin lingers for a heartbeat before it’s gone and she has to take in another deep breath through her nostrils to quell her quaking heart. 

 They both settle themselves down on the mattress and it creaks beneath either of their weight. She holds her breath again, still under the guise that one of those things will come snatch her away at the smallest of sounds, but the reminder that they are on the island, that they are safe fills her with some solace. Even though the relief never stays long. The past always comes back to haunt her, as if some sort of evil spirit has made it its sole mission to taunt her. 

 “Hey,” Eric whispers and she turns, realizing he was looking at her. “Are you alright?”

 She nods, sniffing again. “Sorry, I’m just… thinking,” she replies, blinking back towards the ceiling. “I had another nightmare.” He sighs beside her and she hears the sheets shift a little as he adjusts his weight. “It’s okay. I get them too.”

 It’s easy to forget she’s not the only one who experienced the horrors of the invasion, that she isn’t the only one who lost things, people. She forgets she’s not the only one who is haunted by what transpired that day and she peers back over towards Eric. He stares up at the ceiling, his hands neatly folded on top of his stomach and his lips pursed. He taps his fingers against the back of his hands a little awkwardly, as if he wants to speak but isn’t sure what to say. So instead, he remains silent, waiting for the moment he succumbs to sleep. 

 “Tell me about England,” her voice fills that void between them and he almost flinches, snapping his head towards her, an incredulous look upon his face. “What?” He says as if he hadn’t heard her the first time. The corners of her lips twitch, “tell me about England,” she repeats. “I’ve always wanted to go. And well… it doesn’t look like I’ll be going any time soon.”

 He exhales and it almost mimics a laugh but it dies as soon as he rolls his head to face the ceiling once again. He stares into the darkness above, sifting through the memories he has of home. The truth is, it’s been so long since he’s been home, the memories are already beginning to fade away. His mother, his father, his little sister, their cat, his childhood home, the town he grew up in. The more days that pass, the farther away all those things seem. He can still see them toward the horizon but they’re fading behind shadows. He fears that soon enough, they’ll be nothing more than black shapes out in the distance, too far away to make sense of what they are. 

 For a moment, she wonders if he’s going to speak at all. Frodo purrs as he leaps onto the bed, curling into a ball at their feet. And then, Eric finally speaks. 

 “Growing up, I never thought where I grew up was small until I came to the States,” he begins. “Did you know that the entire population of New York City is over four times the population of Kent?” 

 Her lips curve into a tight, genuine grin and she shakes her head. “No,” she replies and he scoffs. “It’s crazy,” he mutters. “I’d never seen so many people in one place before in my life.”

 She laughs again and this time, her grin splits her face and when Eric turns, his gaze lingers. She stares back, finding his eyes even in the darkness. Even in the dark, she can see the way they soften in searching. Whether it is her or his memories he is searching, she is not sure. She grows warm at the sudden awareness of their closeness and she has to turn away again to ease the erratic beating of her heart, folding her hands just beneath it, sucking in a deep breath. 

 Eric clears his throat. Then he continues, “there was this bakery around the corner from my house. My sister and I practically kept that place afloat all on our own with how many times we went.” 

 She turns and watches his side profile as a soft smile curves his lips and she thinks to herself, how can she possibly look away? Neither one of them ever really talked about their life before the invasion much, but maybe they should’ve tried sooner, if he was going to look the way he does now. It’s the brightest she’s ever seen him, the fastest he’s ever talked. His eyes gleam at just the mere mention of home and she wants to know more, wants to learn more about him. 

 “Have you ever had focaccia?” He asks, turning to find she’s already staring and she raises a brow. 

 “Ever had what?” 

 His brow furrows and he looks almost offended, a hand on his chest in mock offense. “Do the Americans not feed you focaccia?” She laughs, shrugging. “I honestly have no idea what you’re even talking about,” she replies and he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 “It’s only, like, the finest bread in the world,” he says. “But the best is at the bakery near home. It’s the focaccia of all focaccia. Their focaccia beats all focaccia.”

 She chuckles, “I’ll have to take your word for it then.”

 “Well, anyway, my sister and I would get focaccia from that bakery everyday after school,” he blinks, brow dipping. “Except Wednesdays. They were always closed Wednesdays. I always hated Wednesdays because of it.”

 She cannot help it anymore so she laughs, her shoulders wracking with the sheer power of the action. She clasps a hand over her mouth to attempt to suppress any embarrassing chortles and Eric sputters, the mere beginning of his own laugh. 

 It’s something she can’t remember doing last: laughing. At least, genuinely laughed. It must’ve been before the first day but that day feels so long ago that she can’t place a finger on nearly anything before it. 

 So this feels good. It feels like things can be almost perfect, because even if this lighthearted feeling is only fleeting, in the moment, it feels right. It feels right to be here with Eric, laughing over a life that neither one of them will ever have again. Laughing even as the world crumbles around them. Laughing as they pretend that everything is okay, if only temporarily. 

 There are tears in her eyes now from how hard she’s laughing and she blinks them away, peering over at Eric through her watercolor vision. He’s still coming down from the high his laughter gave him when she reaches over, fingers finding his arm. 

 “Eric?”

 He hiccups with laughter, “yeah?”

 She sniffs and bites back another laugh. “Can I kiss you?”

 Maybe it's the spur of the moment. Maybe it’s just happenstance. Or maybe, just maybe, it was meant to be. 

 She doesn’t know. 

 But none of it matters right now. 

 Because his gaze drops to her lips and when he looks up, she finds he wants her just as much as she realizes she wants him too. 

 Eric says nothing, only reaches for her, his hand finding the back of her head to pull her in and her arms wrap around his neck and then their lips are one. They fit together in the perfect mold, as if it truly was just as she thought: meant to be. 

 Perhaps, Eric was who she was meant to find all along. End of the world or not, life— at least on Eric’s end, it was more chance on hers— brought them both to New York at the same time and she can’t help but wonder, as his tongue swirls her mouth, whether she would’ve found him anyways. 

 Perhaps they would’ve run into each other on the street. Perhaps, even on the subway. Maybe they would’ve walked into the same restaurant at the same time and locked eyes. Or maybe they would’ve gone to the same shops, the same hotel, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. 

 An arm slithers around her waist and draws her into his chest and she knows that this is fate. It simply can’t not be. 

 She pulls away for a moment, just so either of them can catch their breaths, and their eyelids peel open and seemingly nothing else matters. There’s a sort of silent understanding between them— Eric must feel the same. 

 And that’s enough. It’s all she needs to be okay again, to want to live. 

 They crash into one another again, like two stars in a stellar collision. She burns brighter than she ever has before and they melt into one another and relish the notion that this is enough. 

a/n; saw a quiet place day one the other day and i think writing an eric fic was inevitable so... HERE YOU GO! i hope you all enjoy this one and let me know if you'd like for me to write up more eric fics! i'd love to explore this character some more :)

🤍 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! ✨

In the darkness of your apartment, the first flash of thunder and the trickle of the rain provokes immediate joy. He knows too, his usually big, innocent eyes veiled by lust. Like Pavlov’s dog, Eric knows how to react when the outside sounds get louder and louder.

“Yes.” You immediately confirm what you want, and he gives in to you.

You wrap your hands around his neck as he brings you into a soaring kiss that makes you moan against his plush lips. You feel like you’re outside in the rain, drowning. Your fingers trail down his neck until you come across his first buttons, that you undo expertly, along with tossing aside his ridiculous tie. Despite everything, Eric still insisted on dressing like the lawyer student he once was.

Under the soft candlelight, you discover his pale skin, his soft body like it’s the first time. He takes care of your sweater, pulling it over your head.

“You’re beautiful.” You whisper, out of habit.

“Stop.” Eric reacts, his voice under the flow of his British accent. “You are.”

His arms are around your waist, pulling you close as he nuzzles your breasts that you hadn’t bothered covering up with a bra (who cares it’s the fucking end of the world, right?). The tip of his tongue shyly teases the tip of a hard nipple. Too used of being gentle, quiet.

“More, please.” You beg softly.

He sucks the flesh into his warm mouth, and your body arches against his chest, pushing your ass into his careful hands. Eric’s right hand come up to your other breast, caressing and squeezing the fat until you’re letting out pretty moans for him. 

Your hands come down to his leather belt, that you’re soon discarding on the floor with a loud metal clank. But you don’t care, as the thunder is already responding even louder. You’re both taking each other’s pants off embarrassingly fast, and he’s pushing you on your couch until you’re splayed out for him, a beautiful painting under a warm glow, occasional cold light revealing more. His nose traces your covered mound, inhaling the soft laundry scent of your floral panties.

The rain is still pouring, taping violently against your apartment windows as he pulls down your panties, freeing the dark curls and the wetness of your slit.

“You never told me if it bothered you –”

“What? This?” He’s asking as a finger curls around some of the untamed hair. His tone is almost mocking, and you feel your cheeks heating up.

“Yes.”

“I quite like it, actually. You look like a woman. And this is what I want. ” He punctuates his words with an index trailing over your slit, making you shudder. Your fingers tangle in his unruly, soft brown curls, pushing him closer to where you want him. You know he can never resist eating pussy, it’s probably his favorite meal. He spreads your lips with his fingers, keeping you open for him as his pink tongue lays flat against your slit, caressing and experimenting.

As the thunder growls, you remember you can show him your appreciation freely. Your mouth hangs open, and as his plush lips latch around your clit, you moan his name. And it’s the most beautiful song he has ever heard.

“You’re always so good to me, Eric.” You praise him softly, the tips of his ears reddening when you compliment him.

Eric sucks even harder before letting go to caress all of you with the flat of his tongue. Your ass lifts off the couch without really wanting too, pushing more of you into his mouth. He licks and sucks messily, wet sounds filling the air. You like him like this, free and disheveled. One of his fingers breach your hole, stretching you slowly. You want to tell him you won’t break, but you don’t know how, your mind blurry with pleasure.

A strangled “more” is all you can let out, and he listens, pushing another finger in. He thrusts them almost all the way out, then in, curling them at the right angle as his numb tongue keeps sucking. You fall apart just in time for the next thunder crack, a cry coming out of your throat as you gush around Eric’s fingers. His lips are wet with your juices as he comes up for air, climbing on the couch to kiss you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him on top of you as you lay down.

“Make love to me.” You whisper against his lips, your hands trailing down his body to take off his boxer briefs. Your hand circles the base, teasing his cock with a slow movement of up-and-down, momentarily distracting you from your wish.

“Don’t you want me to make love to you?” He whispers in your hair in an amused tone.

“Yes. But I like this. I like touching you.”

Eric chuckles and pushes your hand away. “Stop. I want you.”

 He gets up momentarily to get a condom and covers his cock with it, pumping himself as he gazes down at the perfection that you are, laid peacefully on the couch. You rarely look as relaxed, and he cherishes those moments when you’re not fearing for your life.

You beckon him closer with a movement of your fingers, and he lays on top of you. He’s always so careful with you.

“Hold me.” You wrap your legs around his middle and push him closer. His arms wrap around your neck as he fills you up, slowly, inch by inch. Your eyes flutter closed; you can barely see the violent lightning anymore; you can only hear it. But you try to concentrate on Eric’s heavy breathing in your ear. He stops when his hips are flush with yours, just holding you peacefully.

“I love you.”

You don’t know if you’ll live to see another day, but you love him and it’s the only certainty.

“I love you, too.” He kisses your brow, your nose, and your lips. You keep him there, your tongue tangling with his as he starts moving gently.  Your moans die in his mouth, and you realize how much you crave him, harder, faster. You push him off you and he looks at you with concern until climb on top of him.

“You won’t break me. Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like it’s our last day alive.”

You align him with your pussy, and you sink down. His reprieve is short, as you’re already bouncing on top of him. He moans obscenities, covered by the sound of the rain. His hands wrap tightly around your hips and his thrusts meet yours in a chaotic, unsynchronized dance that you both make work. The two of you are letting out cries freely, and it’s somehow liberating.

“Come for me, Eric.” You let out between strangled moans.

He slows down, thrusting harder and deeper.

“Not before you, love. Touch yourself.”

You anchor yourself to the couch with a hand on the leather underneath your bodies, your free hand coming down to play with your clit. You try not to fall as he keeps fucking up into you, in a slow but rough pace.

“That’s it baby. God, you’re so hot.” He says it like it’s physically hurting him.

With another one of his deep thrusts, your walls tighten around him and you come with a final moan. You then let him use you, until he’s also done. Your body falls on top of his, and you caress his sweaty curls as he whispers sweet nothings to you.

The moment he’s out of sight, you push yourself off the dirty floor, grab Sam’s Bai, and take a seat next to her head on the bench. The struggle to lift her head is apparent so you quickly slide closer so her head can rest on your lap. She gives you a look of thanks before she sips from the bottle.

Once she finishes, Sam gestures to the notebook on the top of her “I heart NY” tote. Luckily, you can reach it without jostling her head too much. 

The marker scratches against the paper as she writes. It takes her a minute longer than it did for her to write out the medication she needs, so you’re curious about what it says as she hands it to you over her head. 

I see how you keep looking at him. You going to say anything or what?

Heat floods your face, and you swear everyone else in the church is able to read the note over your shoulder. Doing your best to shake it off, you write back a quick message before handing the notebook back to Sam.

Not allowed to speak at all.

She reads what you wrote and drops the notebook onto her chest, letting her eyes roll up so she can give you the most unamused glare you’ve ever seen. 

As if Frodo is also unimpressed with your answer, he crawls out from beneath the bench, stretches his front legs out with his tail in the air, then heads towards the door. 

Funny. Pretty sure your eyes have left him all of twice since we left the apartment. 

It had been pure luck seeing Sam and Eric come into the apartment building last night. The distinctly human footsteps walked past the door of your apartment on the fourth floor and your curiosity got the better of you. You’d been held up in your home since the start of whatever kind of invasion this is and the need to see another live human being was too strong to deny. Though this was just last night it feels like another lifetime ago.

This is possibly the end of the world, and you want me to what? Tell Eric I think he’s cute?

You can’t help but see the twisted humor in the fact that you and Sam are sitting in a dilapidated old church, in the middle of what seems to be an alien invasion, and the two of you are writing notes back and forth to one another like high school girls gossiping. 

I’m saying to go for what you want. We could be dead in a minute for all we know. Don’t waste your time.

It’s hard to argue that point with someone you know has limited time left. It’s even harder to argue because you know she’s right. But even though you’re in survival mode now, you’re still you and don’t find things like this easy. Call it insecurity or trauma from high school when the guy you had a massive crush on found out about it and laughed in your face. Things like that don’t just go away—even in the apocalypse.

We’re focusing on staying alive right now, Sam. 

You’re deflecting.

It’s just the truth.

It’s still deflecting. 

What do you want me to say, huh? I’m already scared for my life, I don’t need heartache on top of everything else right now.

Why do you think it would be heartache?

Because guys like him aren’t interested in girls like me.

Guys like him? Girls like you?

Yeah. Handsome, smart, kind. And me, not those things. I don’t need to feel like the rejected high school girl again right now. 

Are you shitting me? This isn’t high school. Either tell Eric how you feel or agonize over what could have been. 

Again, trying to survive right now.

So afterwards. On the boat out of here.

Maybe.

If I had the strength to wring your neck, I would. Cancer has fucked up my life but one thing it did do is show me how useless shame is. There’s no time for being embarrassed, it’s just a waste. 

Why do you care so much?

What? You’re not getting my loving and nurturing vibe?

Ha. But really.

You’re both good people who deserve to be happy. If you can find that in each other then I think you should at least try. 

Fine. On the boat. I’ll say something to him there.

Swear on Frodo.

That’s not fair.

Do it.

Fine, I swear on Frodo.

Sam seems content after that and closes her notebook and rests it on her abdomen. 

It seems somewhat like emotional blackmail when the woman dying of cancer makes you swear on her sweet, adorable service cat. 

The arguing (if you could call it that) has drained some of Sam’s energy and you see her eyes start to flutter closed. But a spark lights in her eyes, and she opens the notebook once more. At first you think she has something else to say to you about the whole crushing on Eric thing, but this sentence is for her.

My dad played beautiful piano.

A bittersweet smile rests on your lips. 

Sam tries to put the notebook back down on her bag, but a wince tells you that the effort is hurting her. Gently, you take the notebook from her and set it down. She nods her head in thanks. 

For the better part of an hour, Sam dozes on and off. It doesn’t seem like a particularly restful sleep she’s getting, but you hope it’s doing something to help her. 

When Eric comes back, Frodo leading him in, he looks exhausted. Not that any of you were in top form these days, but Eric looks even more haggard than when he left. Still cute, though. Unfairly cute.

As he walks towards you and Sam on the bench, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box no bigger than a Polaroid picture. With a slight wince, Eric kneels next to Sam and begins getting the patch out and free from its adhesive. 

Sam tilts herself to the side and you help her turn enough that she can show Eric where to place it. 

Once it’s firmly on her skin and Sam is comfortably on her back again, it only takes a few minutes before the relief is visible. Her body has relaxed, her breathing down to a steady pace, and she looks the most at peace you've ever seen her. It feels like your heart has been run through with a sword when you think about all this poor woman must have gone through. 

“My dad played beautiful piano.”

Eric held Sam’s notebook in his hand, smiling at the few words. You just hope that’s the only page he stays on. He turns his head and meets Sam’s eyes.

“I loved it when he would bring me to watch him play,” Sam says, voice ragged and weak. “Then we’d get pizza at Patsy’s.”

That explains the odd insistence for pizza when the world is ending. 

“What happened to him?” you ask softly.

There are a few moments where Sam doesn’t speak, and you begin to think she’s not going to answer you. 

“He died,” she says. The pain in her watery eyes is palpable. You would want to wrap her up in a hug if she weren’t in so much pain. “Like I am now.”

The sad truth said out loud at last. You haven’t heard either of them say it up to this point. 

“Not before we get pizza,” Eric tells her. 

A small smile ticks up the corners of Sam’s mouth. 

“Not before we get pizza,” she agrees. 

The ship is leaving the port. It’s not too far out so it would be possible for you all to still secure passage on it. But then the dread in your stomach grows as you watch creature after creature step onto the sandy shore. They take great care to stay far enough away from the water, though. 

You, Sam, Eric, and Frodo trudge through the wreckage of cars and building debris scattered along the road. 

The four of you drop behind the carcass of an old van, all of you pressing your backs up against the tarnished metal. 

A shuddering breath comes from next to you and your head whips towards Eric, who is between you and Sam. His eyes tear up and he grits his teeth, trying to ward off the anxiety that’s creeping up.

Sam immediately presses a hand to Eric’s chest and in the lowest whisper possible says, “Breathe.”

You take one of Eric’s hands in your own and give it an encouraging squeeze. Hoping he’ll follow your lead, you take a large breath in, then let it out. It helps a bit, but the anxiety is so strong. How could it not be in the situation you’re all prisoners to?

Your eyes move from Eric to Sam as you watch her nuzzle her face against Frodo and press kisses to his black and white fur. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she’s saying goodbye to him. Then she hands Frodo to Eric, and it hits you. She was saying goodbye to Frodo. Instinct tells you to fight her on this, but how can you? One, you can’t speak. And two, who are you to tell her not to do this? If it were you, you’d rather go out trying to save the lives of your companions rather than let a vicious disease let you waste and wither away, slowly and painfully as the world ends around you. Sam is thinking that her life is almost up, and she’d rather buy yours and Eric’s lives with the short time she has left.

Sam pushes herself into a crouch as Eric clings to Frodo, holding him close to his chest. You let go of Eric’s hand so he can hold onto the cat better—Lord knows he’s already run away enough times. 

“Run,” Sam whispers. 

Before she takes off, you look her in the eye and nod your head once. Between that and the tears building in your eyes, you hope she sees your acknowledgment of what she’s doing and all the gratitude you can convey to her. 

Sam nods in return, telling you she knows. Then, she’s gone. You see her crouch down behind cars as she makes her way through the lot. She picks up a crowbar and smashes it through a still-intact window of a car.

The smashing glass catches the attention of the creatures, and you know the time to move is now. Looking at one another, both you and Eric take a deep breath before getting up from behind the car. 

Monsters rush past you, leaving you almost no room to dodge them as they race in the direction of the noise Sam is making. It seems like a miracle once the two of you see the dock ahead, no creatures between you and there.

Your sprint turns into a run, Eric keeping pace right beside you as he holds Frodo securely against him. A few steps onto the pier, Eric’s foot kicks a large metal can that skids a few feet away. It clangs as it tumbles, and the monsters hear it. 

There’s no need for you to look back; you know they’re coming. All energy reserves go into your legs as you run faster. The rail around the dock is broken in one place, giving you and Eric the perfect opportunity to jump into the water. 

But they’re getting closer.

You can hear the monsters gaining on you, and a quick glance shows one leaping in the air, aiming to land right on top of you, Eric, and Frodo. But you jump. The flash of yellow beside you brings immense relief as you hit the water—both of you jumped in time. 

As you surface, you look back and see a gang of creatures waiting at the exact spot you and Eric leapt from. Two heads pop up next to you, one human and one cat, both safe. If this were any other circumstance, you would probably chuckle at how Frodo looks all wet. 

Eric gazes back at the land with you and you both see Sam, standing between two dedicated cars.

Shouts come from the ship behind you, encouraging you to swim over to them. Without saying a word to each other though, both you and Eric take the time to look back at Sam. To watch her, this brave woman in every sense of the word. There could never be a way for either of you to thank her enough, but you hope she feels some semblance of it. 

Wide brown eyes meet yours as you turn towards Eric. The two of you bob in the water for a few moments, looking at each other as you attempt to catch your breaths. Now it’s time to get to the boat. It’s time to get to safety.

Once the three of you have made it to the boat, you’re helped on board and assured that you’re safe now. Blankets are brought to wrap around you, Eric, and one for Frodo as well. 

It seems impossible to attempt relaxation after the last few days’ events, but there’s nothing else to do as the ship sails slowly along. Where it’s headed, you don’t know. You don’t particularly care at the moment, either. 

You, Eric, and Frodo make yourself comfortable in a small alcove on deck. It feels like you fall in a heap together, collective exhaustion kicking in. You weren’t even aware of how tired you were until this moment. The adrenaline finally starts to wear off and you lay your head down on Eric’s shoulder. You don’t intend to, but you quickly fall asleep against him.

When you wake, your head is still on Eric. Slowly, you sit up straight and smile when you see Frodo sleeping on Eric’s chest, all curled up in his blanket. Eric’s gaze catches yours and the moment you look into the beautiful brown eyes that make your knees weak, you remember what you promised Sam. On the boat. I’ll say something to him there.

After everything you’ve been through, you now understand clearer than ever what Sam meant about there being no time for embarrassment. No one knows if the next moment is their last, and do you really want to regret keeping your feelings inside? No. Plus, there was absolutely no way you could break your word to Sam after what she just did for you. 

“Eric,” you start, unsure of how to phrase what you want to say. He looks at you, waiting for you to continue. Gathering your nerve, you do. “I want…I have to tell you something.”

“Sure. Anything.”

Another deep breath. Sam’s voice whispers in your head, you can do this.

“I don’t, um, know where we’re going. Or what’s going to happen next. I can’t even begin to think about that, really. B-But I do know that I would like to stay with you for as long as you’ll let me. I like being with you.”

A shy smile grows on Eric’s face, and he nods his head. 

“I like being with you, too,” he says. “I’d love to stick with you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. But can I ask you…is it because you think I’m cute?” Eric is trying his hardest not to smirk, but the look of surprise on your face threatens to overtake him.

“I-I…”

“Or well,” Eric says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper and holds it between the two of you, “at least that’s what you told Sam.”

Your eyes dart down to the paper, and you recognize your and Sam’s handwriting. A gasp startles out of you as you realize it’s the note you and she passed back and forth in the church.

Eric is full on grinning when you look at his face again. His shoulders shake as he chuckles, and his laugh is infectious. You start giggling yourself and bring your hands up to cover your eyes.

“Oh my God, she ripped it out of the notebook and shoved it in her pocket? She thought I was gonna wimp out!”

Neither of you can stop laughing now. After being so scared and quiet for so long, it just feels so good. 

Eric pulls out another piece of paper and hands it to you.

“She also wrote us this sweet note.”

The letter from Sam makes you smile, cry, and oddly, feel some form of peace. She’s home. 

“Aw, Frodo,” you say as you fold the note back up. “You would be the handsomest boy even if you did get fat. But no, we’re not going to feed you too much.”

Eric chuckles and holds his arm open for you. You gladly accept the invite and curl up against his side. The scent of the salt water, wet cat, and the mustiness from the blankets do nothing to cover the scent that is pure Eric. You rest your forehead against his neck as he wraps his arm snugly around you and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You know,” he says softly as he lays his head against yours, “I came very close to getting you and I killed multiple times.”

“What?” You frown as you reach your hand out to stroke the top of Frodo’s head. “How?”

“Well, when I first saw you, when you stepped out of your apartment, I didn’t say anything. Not only because I couldn’t, but I was speechless. You’re so pretty and I froze. Sam had to push me three or four times to get me to walk again. And then there were so many times I’d just look at you and almost blurt out how beautiful you are. Because your beauty is something that’s impossible to keep quiet about. Then I got to know how kind you are. So compassionate, brave, selfless. Your beauty runs farther than skin deep and it made me even more of a bumbling idiot.”

You can’t help but giggle as you bury your head farther into the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet. 

“But I do have a bone to pick with you,” Eric says.

Reluctantly, you pick your head up to look him in the eye.

“Why?” you ask, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion.

He picks the note between you and Sam back up and begins to read a part aloud.

“Why do you think it would be heartache?

Because guys like him aren’t interested in girls like me.

Guys like him? Girls like you?

Yeah. Handsome, smart, kind. And me, not those things. I don’t need to feel like the rejected high school girl again right now.”

He lowers the note and shakes his head.

“Now, I don’t know what kind of absolute prats you went to high school with, but anyone who rejected you is, quite literally, insane. And I don’t like this talk about ‘girls like you.’ You make it seem like such a bad thing to be you. But you’re possibly one of the best people I’ve ever met. And I know that after only knowing you for about two days. And it didn’t take me more than four seconds to see how stunning you are. Frodo and I want you to see yourself the way we do. Right, boy?”

Both of you look down at the snoozing cat and you scratch between his ears with a chuckle.

“I’ll work on it,” you say earnestly. 

Frodo tilts his head and you let your hand drop. You lift your head and Eric is so close. It would barely take any movement for his lips to be on yours. So, you make that move. The hand that was petting Frodo comes up to cup Eric’s jaw as you lean in and press your lips against his.

Eric’s body immediately sinks against yours, holding you tighter as he kisses you back with urgency. It’s as if he remembers the two of you have more time now and he can savor this moment as he slows the kiss down, enjoying exploring your mouth at a lazy speed. There’s no rush anymore. You’re safe and both here together. 

When you part, he rests his forehead against yours and you’re pretty sure there are identical grins on both of your faces. 

“I can’t wait to hear your laugh over and over again,” you tell him.

“I can’t wait to hear you say my name,” he replies.

“Eric.” It’s the first time you’ve been able to say it above the lowest of whispers. “Eric, Eric, Eric.”

His grin grows even larger, and he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“God, I love the sound of that.”

Billy

I think the first time you get sick when you and Billy are together, he isn’t really quite sure what to do. He’s never been the nurturing kinda guy, he’s never had to take care of anyone but himself. But he cares for you, and honestly? He gets stressed. He doesn’t like when you feel bad in any way, whenever anything bad happens to you he blames himself for not keeping you safe, even if it’s illogical. He’s like, okay, you have the flu? Who’s ass do I need to kick?

But he’s always happy to give you cuddles if you’re cold, space if you’re hot. He’ll make you soup on the stove and rub your back. He’ll hold your hair back if you’re getting sick, help you take a shower, and carry you back to bed.

Just don’t tell anyone he’s such a softie.

Eddie

When Eddie finds out you’re sick, he’s like “Okay, come over right now so I can take care of you.” Does he care if he gets sick too? Not one bit. He’s going to let you lay in his bed, making you whatever you’re in the mood for. When you’re not interested in eating but you haven’t all day, he gives you the sad puppy dog eyes. “Please, sweetheart? Just try for me?”

He cheers you up while you’re not feeling your best, always cracking a joke and making you laugh. If you’re bored, he’ll gladly tell you everything you need to know about D&D and even help you make a character to join the next campaign. No energy for that? No worries, he’ll play you something on the guitar he’s been working on, serenading you to sleep.

Eric (AQPDO)

no monsters AU, let me know if you’d like to see something different!

When you’re sick, Eric immediately wants to stay home from work to take care of you properly. You laugh and tell him “No, you need to go, I’ll be just fine.” He isn’t convinced, and he really wants to spend his whole day making sure you’re okay, but he knows you’re right.

You and Eric emerged from a hole in the ground beneath the church, the water you had just escaped seemed stained red as you turned, pulling yourself up and onto the marble flooring.

You knew you were hurt, would be stupid not too seeing as there was a burning coming from your shin though it was diluted through shock.

You were pulled from your focus on the pain as Erics arms wrapped under your armpits, lifting you until your legs were completely out of the ground.

You turned to face him as he lifted a hand to his lips, reminding you to be quiet. As if you'd forgotten.

He lay you down gently against a pile of rubble, quickly searching through the group of others in the church for help, 'doctor?' scribbled onto the back of his hand in the ink of a pen he found at the churches alter.

Finally after minutes of staring at the ceiling, eyes drifting in and out of consciousness he returned. Stood behind him wearily was an older woman, maybe sixty five-ish? In her past life she was a nurse, before the monsters came crashing onto New York City.

She seemingly collected a dust covered first-aid kit, hung on the wall near the entrance. You prayed there was actually enough in there to save your leg, though you doubted there would be blood- of which you were losing by the litre.

'The quicker it's closed, the better." He wrote onto a note pad, handwriting scribbled in his hurry.

"Closed?" You mouthed, under the impression you would simply need bandages. Lifting your head up you watched as the woman threaded string through a needle. You knew what that meant.

You began frantically shaking your head at Eric, 'No, no, no.' being mouthed repeatedly as your pupils dilated in panic.

"I'm sorry." He mouthed back moving you to lie between his legs, head in his lap. Your efforts to escape proved helpless as your pain emerged through any shock left over though you were confident stitches would hurt more.

He wrapped his own arms around yours, effectively tying them down. Your breathing turned rapid and shallow, panic setting in as you accepted all the pain you were about to feel.

The first time the needle went in you felt nothing. And then whit, hot burning pain. Your back shot up off the ground, a silent scream leaving your mouth as tears spilled from your eyes uncontrollably.

Eric did all he could, shushing you silently, eyes dark and filled with guilt. Though it didn't ease the pain- nothing could. No amount of sweet nothing and comfort that you couldn't actually hear would help.

He watched in his own emotional pain as your fists turned white, breathing only getting quicker, and quicker as each stitch pierced your skin.

He could no longer bear it, leaning down so his forehead touched yours in an attempt to give you solace. Your cries grew heavier, soft sobs leaving you. Panicked that soon enough they would become loud he put his mouth so close to your ear you could feel every hair on his chin as he spoke.

"You're okay, it's okay." He repeated like a prayer. Were you okay? It wasn't truly clear. Hearing it from him though, Eric with his soft British twang brought you back to reality, even if it did come in the form of a shaky whisper.

This time when he shushed you with gentle care it was audible and soothing. Your breathing slowed but the tears and pain never ended, you could only hope the stitches were almost complete.

He kept his forehead against your own but brought a hand away from your arm, instead reaching up to wipe your burning tears away, thumb moving back and forth smudging ash into your skin.

As he moved away, your eyes stayed locked with his, attempting to disassociate from this moment and focus instead on him. His curly hair, brown eyes, dirty collar which looked pristine and ironed fifteen hours ago. It all brought you pain to think of now- the simple things like clean clothes which didn't smell like smoke but nothing hurt more than the look on his face as he starred at you, as though you were broken.

That was a month or so ago, but you carry the horrors of that day still. 

In the vivid nightmares that rattle your bones. In the marred skin of your ankle, hidden beneath bandages, slowly healing with each passing day. And in the strange boy with puppy dog eyes who still hasn’t left your side.

Let me check your leg, Eric scribbles on a notepad. 

His handwriting is slanted and small and hardly legible — fitting for a man whose mind is always racing faster than he can keep up. 

The marker is fading slowly, too, dying from excessive use because the majority of your conversations are spoken through written words on a page. You’ve gone through a notebook or three already.

You snatch the notepad from his grip to write a response of your own. Eric peels the tattered blanket from your body to survey the gauze around your ankle. He peeks beneath the bandage, and his chest pinches at the sight — not because of his sensitive stomach, but because of the harsh reminder of the day he almost lost you.

The paper swishes faintly when you turn the notebook back to him. Okay, Dr. Eric :P, you’ve written in sloppy cursive. The boy grins at the mischievous look in your eyes.

“That’s Doctor Eric Esquire to you,” he corrects in a whisper that makes his accent sound more posh than usual. He smooths the gauze back into place with a gentle hand and says, “You’re healing fine, I think. I’ll have to go out and scavenge for more bandages soon, but these should last for another…”

The sounds of your rapid scribbling fill the quiet cabin. Eric trails off in wait, wide eyes darting from the marker in your hand to the pinched look of concentration on your face. 

He sees a strange sort of giddiness sparking in your otherwise serious features that makes him fearful. Intrigued, yes, but still distantly fearful. All your ideas tend to get him into trouble.

The notebook turns to him again. His stomach does a backflip.

Wanna go on an adventure?

“This is… Not what I was expecting,” Eric muses beneath the sounds of a rushing waterfall. 

His words echo slightly in the expanse of the dank cave. It’s the first time you’ve heard his voice in full volume, deep and accented and smooth. His pretty whispering annoyed you to no end back when he was just a stranger with exactly zero survival instincts. Now, you never want him to stop talking.

“Well, that’s why it’s an adventure,” you lilt, wiping water from your brow with the neck of your t-shirt. 

Your clothes stick to you in places where the waterfall had splashed you on your way underneath it. The still air of the cave, strangely cool compared to the humid air outside of it, makes you fight back a shiver.

Eric eyes you from a distance, features swirled in a quiet concern. It’s impossible to relish in this little ounce of peace when you have the kind of mind he does — the kind of mind that’s always anxious and always filled with thoughts of you. 

He cares so much for you, far more than he planned to, that it’s made him chronically fearful. He’s grown to realize, since he met you, that the two words are rather synonymous. You can’t have love without fear — and what is there to be fearful for, if not for the ones you love?

“Your bandages really shouldn’t be getting wet, you know?”

You scoff and limp further into the damp hollow. The quiet sound of your steps reverberates within the stone walls, along with the subtle scuffing of your bad foot. “You said I was healing okay, remember?” you huff and drop the basket in your elbow onto the cobblestone.

“I said you were healing fine,” Eric chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest. “There’s a difference.”

“Not really,” you shrug with a scrunched nose, flashing him a fleeting glance over your shoulder. You turn away again and wince at the distant ache in your ankle when you crouch. 

Sometimes the scars hurt like they’re still fresh, still weeping scarlet and throbbing like a new wound. Eric’s not a doctor, but he tells you that it’ll probably be that way forever. “Phantom pains, I think they call it,” he says in a posh accent that makes him sound more official than he really is. You’re inclined to believe him, anyway.

The boy watches as you sort through the wicker basket you stole — or borrowed, as you claim, “’cause it’s not like the owner’s coming back for it anytime soon.” It’s full of stuff you wouldn’t let him see, like it was some kind of big secret. 

He grimaces when you squat, putting unnecessary weight on a barely healing leg. He knows it hurts, even when you pretend it doesn’t — especially when you pretend it doesn’t. His chest pinches like the ache is his own. Like sympathy pains or something. He worries so much for you that you’ve given him fucking sympathy pains.

“We shouldn’t have left,” Eric agonizes, wiping a pair of anxious hands down his face. He swipes his fingers through his hair and finds the chestnut curls now partially damp. “I shouldn’t have let you leave. I mean, what if we have to run, huh? What if we have to—”

“We won’t,” you groan as you stand to full height again. You hold an old quilt in one arm and gesture wildly with the other. “That’s what the waterfall is for. They can’t hear us under here. Nothing’s coming.”

He knows you’re right, but it doesn’t worry him any less.

“How’d you even know this was out here?”

You falter for a moment. A mere blink of a second. But Eric catches it immediately because there isn’t anything about you he doesn’t instantly notice. He’s rarely ever seen you, his silver-tongued girl, so ambivalent. And something about it frightens him.

“I was… on a walk one day… while you were out scavenging—” you answer slowly, shrugging like it isn’t a big deal at all, though you immediately follow it with, “—Don’t get angry.”

Eric’s pink mouth falls softly agape, opening and closing like a fish’s might, while he tries to find the words to say. To shout. To scream. 

“Y-You... You— You left without me?” he stammers, voice booming. 

The words ring across the expanse of the shallow cave, bouncing off the damp stone walls. It’s the loudest he’s heard himself talk since the world ended, and the notion startles him. Like a dog just learning how to bark.

Eric’s breath hitches in his throat as his dark eyes widen in fear. He waits instinctively for the screeching of far-off monsters and their booming footsteps — prepares for an adrenaline rush that’ll give his weak arms the strength to carry both of you to safety.

It never comes. 

The sounds of the waterfall shield you from the war raging outside of it. 

When the panic passes, the anger resumes.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” Eric agonizes, quieter now, though the corner of his lip twitches with withheld anger. 

You keep your back to the boy and lay out the contents of the wicker basket. A floral quilt to cushion the stone flooring, two bottles of wine to share between you, several bags of stale chips, and one MP3 player that’s somehow stronger than the end of the world. You pay Eric no mind as he continues to rant behind you.

“What if you’d gotten killed? What if— What if you got lost and I couldn’t find you—?!”

“Don’t shout!” you gripe despite your own booming voice. 

“Why not?” Eric questions with a cynical laugh. “I thought nothing could hear us under here?”

You spin back around to face him, grimacing slightly when your healing wounds start to burn. You tilt your chin in a look of defiance, though your eyes sparkle faintly in the dim natural light — something mischievous and strangely shy. 

“I don’t want you to shout because I put a lot of effort into this,” you answer in a steady voice, lips quirking in a distant smile. “And we can’t enjoy it if you’re gonna be grumpy the entire time.”

Eric blinks at you for several long moments, brown eyes wide like an owl. Only then does he notice what you’d set up for him in the brief minutes he’d been blinded by his anger. A picnic of sorts — fashioned with a moth-eaten quilt, dusty wine bottles, and snacks you’d scavenged and seemingly stashed like a squirrel. It’s about as fancy as you can get in an apocalypse.

His mouth opens and closes again, this time in a quiet sort of shock. “Wh… What?”

“Well, you kinda spent your entire birthday taking care of me, so… I figured we were past due for a celebration.”

Eric’s brows pinch together. A furrow of deep thought settles between them. 

He realizes he hadn’t thought twice about his birthday till now. Hadn’t thought twice about turning another year older, just like he hadn’t thought twice about needing to be repaid for taking care of you. He did both things without thinking. He can’t control his urge to dote on you like he can’t control the existential dread of getting older.

“How’d you know it was my birthday?”

“‘Cause you told me once,” you shrug. “And I keep track of the days in my calendar, so—”

“So, you’re saying that… That you did all this...” the man laughs, gesturing to the cave and the waterfall and the wine. “For me?”

A similar-sounding laugh sputters from your own mouth ‘cause you do it all for him. From going on stupid picnics to fighting monsters from another planet. Everything you’ve done up until this point, you realize now, you’ve done for Eric. You keep on living despite the unfavorable odds for Eric.

“Of course I did. It’s not that big of a deal,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest to shield your bleeding heart. “I mean, you kinda saved my life. The least I can do is take you on a stupid fucking picnic.”

When you turn around again to ease yourself onto the blanket, Eric tries to make out the words to thank you. Not just for what you’ve done here, but for what you’ve done all the days since he found you. Because you’ve saved his life too, more times than he could count, actually — ‘cause that’s just what you do. You save each other and don’t think twice about it because that’s what you do when you care for someone.

He forgot all about birthdays and picnics and what it meant to be alive before he found you. And now that you’re here, you spend every single day reminding him of everything the end of the world begs him to forget.

“I’m— I’m sorry… I’m sorry for shouting at you,” Eric stammers in a sheepish murmur, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“I know,” you nod, smiling as you pat the spare spot beside you. “Now stop being weird and come sit down.”

The wine is warm, the chips are stale, and the quilt just barely cushions the hard ground beneath you — but everything’s still somehow perfect. Your MP3 player is almost as old as you are and cracked down the middle, but the music plays just perfectly from its headphones, anyway. 

Maybe it’s perfect ‘cause it’s not perfect. 

Or maybe it’s perfect because you’re here.

You sit side-by-side on the handmade blanket, legs crossed and knees brushing, as you share an earbud between you. Conversation ebbs and flows between snacking. Music fills the silence.

I was sittin’ in a crummy movie with my hands on my chin,

All the violence that occurs, seems like we never win...

Eric tips his head back to down the rest of the cheesy crumbs in the package he holds in a pale fist. His scruffy cheeks jut like a chipmunk as he chews through the mouthful. “I missed this, you know?” he mumbles.

You set the wine bottle beside you after taking a lengthy sip, licking the bitter-sweet grape from your lips. “What?” you wonder aloud. “The wine? The Cheetos? The music?”

The boy goes quiet as he ponders the question. He figures he was talking about you, mostly — this sort of connection between humans, this sort of comfort, this sort of normalcy. The music answers your question in his silence.

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

He nods anyway. “All of the above, actually…”

“You know what I miss?” you wonder beneath the rustling of the Scooby Snacks you dig your hand into. You chuck a cartoon bone into your mouth and find the graham-cracker components have gone soft with time. “I miss driving down backroads… going way faster than what’s probably allowed… with the windows down and the radio all the way up…”

Eric watches the far-off look in your eyes as you stare, unblinking, at the waterfall ahead of you. Clear water rushes from the mountain and falls hard onto the cobbles and the still water below. Rogue drops splatter inside the shallow cave, occasionally splashing you with fat droplets.

The running waterfall cast fleeting shadows over your face, littered now with faint scars. Your features are much softer than he’s used to in the natural light.

“I miss college parties,” he confesses, wiping his palms on his knees.

You wash the dry graham cracker out with another sip of wine and try not to laugh as you swallow it down.

“Why’s that funny?” Eric wonders through his own chuckle, only partially offended.

“I don’t know… I guess I just didn’t take you for a partier.”

“I wasn’t really…” he concedes with a shy shrug, gaze averted and cheeks pink. “But I was a really big fan of karaoke.”

“Well, that makes a lot more sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Eric humors with a scrunched nose.

You tilt your head back to laugh — a pretty, airy sound that echoes within the cobbled walls, only partially drowned out beneath the rushing waterfall. You shift closer toward him when you’re upright again, probably without realizing, but Eric notices. He can’t help but notice everything you do. And he can’t help but lean instinctively closer to you, too.

He can smell the natural scent of you beneath the various surrounding ones — of freshwater, pine, and whatever cologne was spritzed on your shirt before you found it. He can smell the sweet wine on your breath, too, and he quickly realizes that you’re close enough to kiss. If only he weren’t so chicken shit.

The proximity makes his cheeks flush, though you’re not nearly as fazed by it.

“I forgot what that felt like…” you muse in a quiet voice of disbelief.

Eric smiles so hard his eyes squint. “What?”

“I don’t know… just, like, happiness? I guess?” you laugh. “I used to think that was impossible before now.”

“Yeah… Me too.” 

The conversation lulls for a moment. The music playing in your ears takes over: 

—I was standing at a bar and watching all the people there…

All the loneliness in this world, well, it’s just not fair…

You cage your smile between your teeth in a feeble attempt to conceal how wide it’s grown. Your eyes are wide and sparkling, likely from the wine, as they flit between both of his darker ones. Eric exhales a breathy chuckle in response, all giddy and nervous for a reason he can’t name (probably from the wine, too, if he had to guess).

He feels himself leaning in to kiss you before he realizes it. He only catches himself when you pull unknowingly away, reaching again for the glass bottle at your side. His heart drops to his swirling stomach as his cheeks flare a deep pink.

“I’m glad you followed me like a creep for a week straight, you know that?” you confess with a teasing squint in your eyes as you bring the lip of the bottle to your mouth.

Eric scoffs at the memory, which feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once.

He was by himself when the world first fell — a stranger in a strange country, and the loneliest he’d ever been in his life. And, perhaps, the most scared, too. 

Then, all of a sudden, he sees this girl rush out of an alleyway and into a monster-infested street to save a dog from an otherwise unavoidable death. Eric watched from a distance as you returned the scared pup to its owners — a very young couple cowering behind a car, not that much older than you. 

You pointed them in the direction of a military base setting up camps for civilians then went the opposite way. Away from guaranteed protection. Like the safest hands were your own. 

Eric made the quick decision to follow you as you went. He figured if you were brave enough to save some dog that wasn’t yours, and stare death directly in the face while you did it, then you could do just about anything.

He didn’t know, then, that he was making the best decision he’d ever made in his life.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t pummel me in the face for following you like a creep.”

“I should’ve,” you quip. “But I liked your company too much, I guess…”

“Liked?” the boy parrots, laughing loudly at the turn of phrase. “Is this your way of saying you’re finally tired of me?”

You roll your eyes and hide your smirk behind the neck of the wine bottle. “Do you think I would’ve done all this shit if I wasn’t the least bit fond of you, Eric?”

The question is rhetorical, but you expect a lighthearted quip from the British boy anyway. Your words seem to settle something heavy on him, though. It’s the very first time you’ve admitted out loud, without a shred of sarcasm, how much you really care for him. 

Eric forgets to say anything at all. The cave fills with a loud silence. The steady drumming of the waterfall and the whisper of rustling trees. Strangely peaceful for the end of the world. 

“Wanna know something wild?” he asks you after a few long moments. His accent makes the words sound heavy on his tongue. Your brows raise to egg him on, and he continues, stumbling over himself in the process. “I’m… I’m not happy the world ended, but… I am— I am glad that it brought me you.”

Your breath catches. It’s the most profound thing anyone’s ever said to you, you think. Way deeper than any measly ‘I love you.’ And how are you meant to respond to that? To his confession that the end of the world was worth finding you? There’s no string of words in the English language that could possibly compare to that.

Eric waits for your response with bated breath. He hopes for an affirmation of your similar affection, of course, but a rejection would be better than nothing at all. He blinks at you with hopeful chocolate eyes, then flinches away when you laugh.

“You’re such a sap,” you say, giggling, as you reach suddenly for his face.

You cradle his scruffy jaw between warm and gently calloused hands, pulling him into you with an admirable effortlessness. You kiss him like it’s natural to you — like he was never just a stranger — like you’ve spent entire lifetimes kissing him.

You take the breath from his lungs with little effort. Eric tips his head back and sighs when you swipe your tongue along his chapped bottom lip. The exhaled breath fans across your cupid’s bow, and you smile against his mouth as you clamor gracelessly into his lap — straddling his lean hips and pressing your beating heart to his. 

The earbuds fall carelessly to the ground, and the fading song plays muffedly from beside you:

—Love and mercy, that’s what you need tonight…

So love and mercy, to you and your friends tonight…

Your mouths click when they part, a subtle sound beneath the drumming waterfall behind you. Your eyes are heavy and lidding as they fall to Eric’s kissed mouth — now a rosier shade, gently swollen, and shining with your spit. A stamp of ownership, almost, that makes your chest swell with pride.

Eric looks up at you with big, wet eyes as his hands fidget on either side of your waist. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages,” he confesses in a low murmur.

A small smile quirks faintly at the edges of your mouth. “Could you maybe say something that’s not super cliché?” you tease.

“How about… I really, really want to kiss you again?” Eric offers in a honeyed tone that makes his accent heavier. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “And that I… I wanna make you feel good?”

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile. Your fingertips are calloused and cold as they toy with the curls at the nape of his neck — tiny chestnut strands coiled in perfect ringlets. Eric fights back a shiver.

“Then I’d say that…” you begin with a mischievous lilt to your voice, wild eyes flitting from his pink lips to his watery eyes. “I’ve been waiting for that for ages.”

You part from him then, taking the warmth of your body with you as you sit on your knees across from him. The rugged ground is hardly cushioned by the thin quilt. You can vaguely feel small rocks digging into your skin, but your need for him is much louder. 

You cross your arms in front of yourself to swipe your t-shirt over your head. You toss the discarded fabric carelessly beside you, then work at the buttons of your jeans — also borrowed, and just a half-size too big for you. 

Eric watches with his heart in his throat. It’s the most naked you’ve ever been in front of him before. The sight of your bare skin, covered now only in the sports bra you’ve had since the world ended, makes his head swim. It takes him a moment too long to realize he should be undressing, too, and he rushes to catch up.

The two of you undress yourselves in relative silence. The sight is hardly as sexy as you’d expect — full of fumbling limbs far too eager to be graceful. Eric’s shirt gets stuck on his chin. Your jeans get caught at your ankle. The tense lull between you ebbs into a symphony of entwining giggles.

With your clothes scattered in abandoned piles, you lay back against the blanket. Eric settles on top of you with a strange sort of effortlessness — like it’s muscle memory to him, even though neither of you has done this for a long, long while — much less with each other. 

The weight of his body is warm and heavy over yours. You slide your hands under his arms and curl them over his freckled shoulders, digging your nails softly into his pale skin to pull him further into you. 

You watch with heavily lidded eyes as Eric brings his hand to his mouth. He slides his pointer and middle finger between his lips, wetting the pads of them with his tongue. You exhale a deep breath when the limbs come out again, glittering in the low light. 

He studies your features with a dark and unwavering stare as he slips his fingers between the lips of your pussy — tracing the velvety lips for a moment before easing them slowly inside. Your eyes flutter shut at the foreign feeling. Eric smiles to himself, wrist flexing, as he explores your silky cunt with his fingers. 

“Please fuck me,” you sigh when his palm bumps your swollen clit. Your head tips back as your hips buck upward, all but melting under his touch. “Please.”

It takes Eric a moment or more to formulate a response. You’ve never been so subservient like this before, so needy for him. This must be the eighth wonder of the world, he thinks to himself, as he continues to work you open with unworthy hands.

“Have to get you ready for me first,” he tells you, voice and low gritty, as he exhales a breathy chuckle that fans across your jaw. “Don’t wanna break you, honey.”

You manage a scoff in response. “Well, that’s very presumptuous of you— oh…”

Eric crooks his fingers until the tips of them brush a spongy depth inside you. Your mouth falls agape at the feeling, so foreignly full beneath him. His spit-slick lips curl into a lazy smirk. “That shut you up, didn’t it?”

You would’ve spit a snide remark back at him if his thumb hadn’t pressed so mercilessly to your delicate clit then. The words dissolve like dust on your tongue and escape only as a breathy moan. 

Eric continues his relentless pursuit with nothing but two of his fingers. Relentless, you think,because he’s hardly trying to make you cum now. You’re not sure if he’s just oblivious to how good he’s making you feel, or if he’s pushing you to the edge and jerking you back on purpose. It’s agony either way.

He only stops when his pointer and middle finger start to prune, the pads of them softly wrinkled from your honey. He wipes them off on the quilt like a total barbarian. You would’ve said something about that, too, if you weren’t still trying to catch your breath.

Eric rises to his knees. His bare chest, dusted with sparse hair over the sternum, rises and falls with uneven pants. His cock hangs heavy between his spread thighs — half-hard, glowing red, and leaking faintly at the tip. His wide hands are softer than your own as they smooth up and down the length of your thighs. His thumbs rub soothingly over the supple insides of them — with a touch almost as gentle as the melted chocolate gaze he looks at you with. 

“Are you alright?” he wonders, all quiet and suddenly shy, like you aren’t all but dripping for him now.

“You’re so annoying,” you gripe with a scoffed-out laugh, rolling your eyes because you’re certain he’s teasing you. Your stomach sinks when the genuine glimmer in his eyes doesn’t waver. You squirm beneath him and his unyielding gaze. “I’m okay, Eric,” you murmur sheepishly, never easily serious.

He nods to himself and swallows hard, still visibly unsure. It makes you wonder if he’s second-guessing. “Stop staring and kiss me, you asshole,” you grouse with a forced laugh, tightening your grip on his shoulders.

Eric’s mouth quirks in an absentminded smile. “Just let me look at you for a second…” he whispers, squeezing the outsides of your thighs with warm hands.

“We don’t have to whisper anymore, dummy,” you tease in a hushed tone of your own.

His grin widens until his eyes wrinkle at the edges and his tongue pokes softly through his teeth. He laughs despite himself and grips his heavy cock in his fist. “You’re so mean, you know that?” he asks, folding your knee back with his free hand. You’re not sure if he’s expecting a real response, but he slips into you before you can give him one.

He fucks into you slow — bitterly, painfully, and agonizingly slow — forcing you to feel every inch of him. His cock is of average length, but girthy enough to stretch you open. You’re suddenly grateful he thought to use his fingers on you despite your impatience, but the two of them alone hardly equate to how thick he is.

Both of you inhale sharply when he’s fully sheathed inside of you, neither exactly used to the feeling. Eric allows you a moment or more to adjust before sliding out again. You exhale softly together in entwining moans that get lost beneath the sounds of a raging waterfall.

Eric thrusts into you again with gritted teeth, trying not to whimper too loudly when your pussy clenches around him. He bends at the waist to hide his face in your neck and exhales all his pathetic moans there. 

He keeps one hand clenched into a fist on the blanket to prop up his weight; his other slides beneath your head to cushion your skull from the hard ground. You grip the boy by his flexing biceps, digging your nails into the skin every time he thrusts into you. Jaw clenched, nose scrunched, eyes squinted — you take his cock without complaint despite the very loud feeling that it’s all too much for you.

Eric is everywhere, and the notion alone overwhelms you. He’s in you, on top of you, all over you. Like the air you breathe. You need him just the same. Not because he’s your friend but because you’re scared you might seriously die without him. 

It’s dramatic at best. At worst, it’s the exact opposite feeling you should have for anyone in the apocalypse, where death is essentially promised for both of you.

Tears prick your eyes at the thought, though you’d rather blame them on Eric’s merciless thrusts. They’re sloppy and unmeasured as he struggles to find a rhythm. He’s similarly overwhelmed by the pleasure. You can tell by the way his body trembles over yours, and the way he buries loud moans into your pulsepoint. You can feel the vibrations of each moan in your veins. 

The way you’re pinned beneath him cages your clit between your bodies. Every time Eric’s lean hips thrust upward and back again, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock brushes your sensitive button. You couldn’t free yourself from it if you tried. You’re not sure if you even want to.

“This is good for you, right?” Eric wonders through heavy pants, voice wavering under the weight of his pleasure. “Please tell me this is good for you.”

Any other time, you would’ve laughed at him, but now you only nod. Rapidly and with your jaw clenched tight. Just as pathetic as he is. 

“’S good,” you promise through gritted teeth as the coil in the pit of your stomach starts to tighten. “It’s so good, Eric. Feels so fuckin’ good.”

The affirmation makes him moan. Loudly. Enough for you to be momentarily grateful for the cover of the rumbling waterfall. Eric buckles down over you and strengthens his rapid, irregularly timed thrusts with a feeble cry. 

Your own whine rumbles in your throat, falling from your mouth like honey. Your warm skin, now slick with a layer of sweat, begins to buzz. The need for release builds like a dam within you — somewhere deep, right where the tip of Eric’s cock fucks into you. 

Your thighs start to tremble on either side of his waist. Your hips begin to buck despite yourself. You can’t be sure if you’re running from the pleasure now, or chasing it entirely.

“You gotta cum, baby,” Eric tells you through a pitiful whine, face still tucked into your neck. He licks his lips and starts to babble: “I can’t— I’m too close— I need you to cum before I do, baby— Need you to cum right now— Fuck.”

“Is your idea of dirty talk always this pathetic?” you would’ve joked if you weren’t already cumming for him. 

Your mouth falls agape in a silent moan as your head tips back into his palm. Your back arches as you reach the height of your pleasure, pussy fluttering through every wave of it. 

Eric fucks you the entire way through your orgasm — despite your nails biting crescent shapes into his shoulders, despite your velvety cunt tightening around him, despite the very overwhelming feeling that he might burst entirely.

Only when your body goes lax does he pull out of you. 

The empty feeling makes you whimper. Your weeping pussy clenches around nothing while Eric jerks himself off. You can’t see him, but you can feel his wrist moving in rapid motions between your legs. 

A groan rumbles deep in his throat as he tenses on top of you. His still body goes rigid. Something warm and wet spits on your inner thigh a second later — a heavy load of his pearly white cum, which he gives you three of before he’s milked himself dry.

Eric collapses on top of you when he’s officially spent. He forgets to hold up his weight, and you deliberately decide not to remind him. You let the man soak in the waves of his pleasure while you strain to reach the wicker basket at your side — struggling for a moment to find the handful of napkins at the very bottom, then using them to wipe up the mess on your thigh.

“Ah, shit,” Eric curses when he notices (his mess or his weight, you can’t quite tell). He sniffles and rolls off of you. “Sorry…”

Your head whips in his direction. You find his face all flushed, glowing red along the apples of his cheeks and the very tip of his nose. His eyes are big and wet, too, glassy like he might cry. 

Buzzing with concern, you rise to your knees, watching intently as Eric reaches for your discarded pile of clothes. You set them aside when he passes them to you and hold his face in your hands instead. His stubble scratches at your delicate palms. Your wide eyes sparkle with concern as they dart over his teary features.

“Hey… Hey, what happened?” you agonize. “Are you okay?”

Eric laughs at himself, then sniffles again as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Yeah… So much for not being cliché, right?” he jokes.

“What happened?” you repeat, giggling this time at his crooked smile.

“Nothing,” he assures, shrugging his freckled shoulders. “I just… I’m just really happy, I guess…”

Your tight chest deflates with a sigh of relief as you nod in response. “Yeah… I am, too.”

Eric’s grin widens at your confession. His cheeks speckle a rosy color, like he’s pleasantly surprised by the response — as if his softening cock isn’t still sparkling with a mixture of your cum. 

You meet his smile with a scowl, rolling your eyes as you shove playfully at his shoulder. “Don’t look at me like that,” you grumble and turn away from him, reaching for your clothes. 

Your body looms over him as you stand, putting very little weight on your scarred leg. You bend at the waist to tug your underwear up your thighs.

Eric shoves his boxers on with a cheeky grin. “I’m really glad I found you, you know that, right? Even though you’re mean to me all the time?”

You scoff and drag your sports bra over your torso, yanking it at the hem to pull it over your breasts. “I’m happy you found me, too, stalker,” you respond in a monotone that would otherwise suggest the opposite. But Eric catches you smiling when you reach beside him for your shirt and knows you really mean it. 

“You love me,” he insists playfully, right before stealing a kiss from you. 

His lips only manage to brush the corner of your mouth in his haste, but he grins wide about it anyway. Your face screws like you weren’t begging him to fuck you ten minutes ago, as you wipe your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re disgusting…” he hears you mumbling as you turn away, tugging your shirt over your head. 

The rain has ended. Morose, you stare up at the ceiling, wondering when you’ll get something close to free reign with your voice again. 

Of course the world had to end while you were at fucking Whole Foods.

You’ll miss certain things. Things you always took for granted, that you never even considered made a lot of noise until now. Typing on the computer. Making stir fry. Microwaving a burrito at 3am. Lighting a match, washing your face. Taking a shower.

And other things, too, that are more obvious, like singing while making cookies. Slurping the bottom of a milkshake. You’ll never be able to have a pet bird. You’ll never be able to see another concert again, and damn it if you didn’t really want those Glastonbury tickets a month ago. But it all just seems trivial, now. You don’t see why you shouldn’t just lay here on the couch forever. 

On the other side of the coffee table there’s a gentle shuffling. Eric rouses as quietly as he can; at the very least, your apartment creates a hospitable enough environment that he isn’t startled awake. It’s so silent in the apartment that you can hear the slight shift in his intake of breath, the rustle of the pillow as he turns his head to look at you. 

You want to look at him, but you fear that you’ll end up wanting to talk. So, you say nothing. You do nothing. You stare at the white paint on the ceiling and you wonder whether it would be better to get on one of the boats headed out into the water, or to move inland, away from people, away from sound. There has to be somewhere far enough away from the city that the… creatures won’t go, right?

Eric waves his hand in your periphery, so that you have no choice but to acknowledge that you know he’s awake. You have no choice but to turn your head and look into the depths of his eyes, and feel all the pain of the last 48 hours return to you. You’d been able to talk last night, just enough, in time with the rain and the thunder– enough to learn that he has family across the world. 

You can’t imagine knowing that somewhere, across an ocean and half a world away, your parents may or may not be dead. No way to contact them, no way to know what’s become of them. You can’t even begin to fathom the fear that he’s feeling, as much as you’re despairing. 

Eric’s big eyes tell you everything. Sadness and fear, and trying to grasp at the smallest hint of normalcy he can get. He blinks at you, and mouths, You okay?

No, you’re definitely not okay. Things are not okay. Things are broken and can’t be fixed. Things will never be the same again. He knows that, as much as you know that. But you nod anyway, even though you feel your heart beat a little bit slower than usual, like it wants to just go ahead and give up already. Tears prick at your eyes, and you have to close them before you let on that you’re lying.

Eric knows you’re lying, of course. How could anyone be okay, in this kind of situation? But he waits until you open your eyes, and then he mouths, Coffee?

You let out a small sigh of relief, and a smile that’s indescribably warm crosses your face. Even though he can’t make a sound, he knows exactly what to say.

You don’t have a coffee maker that doesn’t also make a ton of noise. But through some kind of witchcraft, Eric quietly empties two k-cups into a glass measuring cup and boils a soup pot full of water on the stove, and suddenly you have hot coffee in front of you. 

On a notepad left on the counter, you write, Wish I had some tea for you. 

Eric’s lips turn up at the edges, and he takes the pen from you. You’re able to doctor your coffee for about one second before he slides the notepad back to you.

Bloody American.

Your ensuing huff of a laugh is enough to make him turn pink around the ears, and he turns to place the dirty measuring cup into the sink. He reaches for the faucet, but then thinks better of it. You’ll have to figure out how to wash the dishes later.

You both drink your coffee in silence on the couch. You never considered yourself uncomfortable with silence; you’ve lived alone, you’ve gone for weeks without uttering a word before. But it’s so difficult to be sitting next to someone– someone you feel you could really get to like– and not be able to say a word. To make a sound, laugh or cry or snort or grunt. 

You’ll never be able to know what Eric’s laugh sounds like, or listen to his favorite song with him, or watch some stupid rerun of Friends with him while ignoring your responsibilities. He’s right there next to you, he’s risked his life to save you once already, and yet he’s so far away. You’ll never get to know him in all the ways you want to. Will you ever really know him at all?

He’d created a diversion when one of the fucking things had you trapped in a corner, between a dumpster and a brick wall. He chucked a rock at a car and set off an alarm, and then ran with you down an alleyway, his arm wrapped tight around your waist. Eric looked so sad, following you like a lost puppy. He was fucking drenched, too, so you know he’d probably been through one hell of a morning. And then the rain started, and the creatures were confused and… well, you weren’t just gonna leave him, scared and alone.

You, too, were scared and alone.

Eric’s hand appears to brush away a tear that had begun to fall down your cheek, betraying your internal monologue. You look to him with puffy eyes, and he pulls his hand away, suddenly unsure of whether you’re okay with such an intimate gesture. 

Your coffee cup meets the table with a quiet tap. You’re slow to move, but you scoot towards him, his arm still outstretched towards you, his eyes wide. Eric has the prettiest eyes in the world, you think. You want to tell him so.

But you’re a little too choked up to form words, anyways. Your forehead meets Eric’s shoulder, and his arm comes around you before you can huff the first silent sob that brims up. He coos softly into your hair, so softly that you can barely hear it, but it conveys enough. It does enough. 

The world is fucked. Your life is fucked. You have tunnel vision and you can only see things getting worse from here on; the only good thing you know anymore is holding you and caressing your head so gently that it pushes your tears out for you. 

You’ll never get to see a movie in a theater, and smell the stale popcorn again. You’ll never drive down the highway with the wind in your hair. You’ll never ride a roller coaster or sing karaoke. You’ll never go to a club and have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger in a bathroom.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” You whisper, so faintly that it’s barely above a breath, your lips pressed to the shell of his ear. “To try to exist in a world where you have to pretend like you don’t exist?”

Eric pauses, holding you to him. You can see the wheels turning in his head, while he tries to figure out what to say. Then he turns his face to put his lips against your ear, the same way you’d done to him. 

“I think it’s worth it to try to survive.” His breath tickles your skin when he whispers, “So survive with me, yeah?”

You nod solemnly, your tears threatening to rise up again. “I can’t stand not talking to you.” It’s so hard to keep your voice from cracking, from rising above the merest hint of a whisper, directly to him and no one or nothing else. 

Eric takes it in stride. “You are talking to me.” He pulls back and bats his eyelashes, and you think, he oughta fucking know what that does to me. 

“Not like this,” you breathe to him, because that’s really what it is– it’s a breath. A sigh. A gust of air and nothing else, barely anything that registers on your vocal chords. Your hand on the back of his neck, pulling him close to you. His hand, tightening on the middle of your back, holding you there. “I want to talk– I want to get to know you.” 

“Well, this isn’t so bad, is it?” Eric turns his head. His forehead nudges yours at the temple, and you swear you see a flash of a smile on his face. “What do you want to know?” 

His forefinger traces up and down, up and down, a gentle pattern that keeps you grounded. You bite your lip, trying to keep from letting the sounds come out too loud. You say the first thing that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite song?”

“Easy Living. Billie Holiday.” 

“You’re kidding.” You’re blushing, hot in the cheeks. You’re imagining it; slow dancing in the kitchen with him while oldies plays on the radio. You didn’t think such an innocent question would send you spiraling like this, but it hurts worse to know that it will probably never happen.

“Absolutely not.” 

“Somehow… I can’t picture you listening to jazz.” 

“Picture it all you want,” he whispers. Eric swallows, and continues, “My granddad used to have these records, and we used to play them on Christmas. But when– when he died, the records went missing. I couldn’t find the song until a couple years ago,” he explains, and his voice cracks just slightly into a murmur. 

You both freeze. You wait for the sound of creatures coming down the hallway, busting down the walls… nothing happens. You let out a breath, and you pull his face closer to yours. His eyes flick over your face, and you put your lips against his ear. 

“You have to be so quiet. Can you do that for me?” Eric nods in your hands. “I wish we could do anything but this. I wish that we could have met in better circumstances. I wish… I wish I had known you before all of this. I think we would have had a lot of fun. But if this is the only way I can get to know you, and hear your voice now, I’ll take it.” You’re nodding as well now, like you’re trying to convince yourself of it. “I’m telling you this because I don’t know how long we have. Together, I mean. And I don’t want to waste it passing notes. Okay?” 

“Okay.” He sounds clipped. His hand fidgets on your back, and you pull away to find him misty-eyed, his brows turned up. He fishes for words that don’t come, and then he nods. “Okay.” 

Neither of you move. The atmosphere around you feels heavy, like it’s pressing in on all sides. Eric’s hand slides up your back and to your face, and you remember that you’re still holding his. You’re near sitting in his lap with how close you’ve become, and the realization of that feels like a punch to the gut.

You think you should pull away. You don’t. 

Eric’s thumb traces a gentle arc across your bottom lip. It’s so featherlight it’s barely there– his eyes are honed in on your mouth, clearly lost in thought. You’d let him stay there as long as he wants, but you want every minute you can get. “Eric–”

He closes the gap and kisses you. The way you’d said his name– or not said it, rather, you sort of mouthed it against his thumb– had done the job you wanted it to. It feels like this was the obvious conclusion to the system you’d worked out, the close proximity and your shared fears. He’s scared, he said as much last night. You’re scared, you said so just now. 

Nowhere to go, nothing else to do except be right here, living. Alive, together. Kissing Eric, and him pulling you close by the waist, so that you do swing your leg and seat yourself in his lap. And as much as you love talking, and it breaks your heart that you can’t jabber at him, there are some things you just can’t put into words. Like the way that his hand on the back of your neck lights you up inside, or that you can’t think of anything other than all the areas where his skin is touching yours, and how you suddenly wish there was way more of them.

It’s stupid how much you like him already, really. You can feel your nonexistent friends clucking their tongues and shaking their heads, saying, “One day? That’s all it takes? You find some guy at the end of the world and you fall in love in 24 hours?” And they’d be right– maybe it’s not love. Not yet, anyways. But you could see it easily becoming that. And that fact scares you even more.

Your hands find Eric’s chest and the frantic beating of his heart tells you nearly the same thing. You break the kiss, trying to quietly catch your breath without gasping like you’re half-drowning. It’s harder than you expected. 

“Been wanting to do that all morning,” Eric whispers. And just like that you’re falling again, faster this time, like he’s just melted your wings right off and sent you plummeting.

You struggle to keep from gasping aloud when he kisses your jaw, just beneath your ear. It’s the lightest touch but you swear it burns, sears your skin. 

Your hands find the back of the couch, twitchy fingers digging in to keep you steady. Your mouth finds his again, his tongue tasting of coffee, and Eric kisses you a bit harder now, a bit sloppier. 

Breaking away, you open your eyes to find his wide, starstruck, his mouth hanging open like he’s been shocked beyond belief. You didn’t honestly intend for this to happen– you wanted to talk. But somehow this seems better, more appropriate. 

How do you get your feelings across when talking isn’t really an option? When innocent attraction becomes… whatever this is? 

You press a single finger to his plush lips, signaling exactly what you mean without a word. Quiet. 

Eric purses his lips, kisses your finger without breaking eye contact. His pupils are blown out so far that the barest hint of golden brown surrounds them, glinting in the sunlight from the window. 

You lean forward, until your mouth touches his ear. “Your eyes are so fucking pretty, Eric,” you whisper to him, and your teeth latch onto his earlobe to tug gently. You can’t help it– you grind your hips down into his lap, without even thinking of doing it. “You’re so pretty.”

Eric whimpers. It’s a soft sound, hollow in the back of his throat, but it’s still too loud for the world that you’re in. You clamp your hand down over his mouth, and his breath comes out sharp and hot over your knuckles as he tries to regain composure.

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask him, whispering gently in his ear. Against you, he shakes his head no. “Want me to keep going?” Eric nods his head yes. 

He’s shaking under you, his fingertips digging into your lower back like he can’t hold onto you hard enough. At the thought, your pulse pounds, blood positively humming through your veins. 

You nuzzle his cheek, and give him the sweetest kiss you can while your hand is still clamped over his mouth insistently. “You have to be. Fucking. Silent. Do you understand?” He nods. “We can’t make a sound. Okay?” 

Eric nods again, and keeps nodding until you let him go. If the rain was still pouring like earlier, you could tell him how much you want him, too. How you don’t want to be mean, you just don’t want to get hurt. This is a bad idea, all things considered. But Eric slides his hand down and cups your ass to lift you up a bit, and the words bad and idea suddenly fucking vanish from your vocabulary.

You stand long enough to kick off your sweats, your day old panties going down with them. You hadn’t dressed to be sexy yesterday, you dressed to get groceries. You don’t necessarily want Eric to see your faded cotton underwear with the stretched out elastic and multiple frayed holes. You don’t think it would add to your sex appeal right now. 

He doesn’t notice the lack of a strip tease– he’s already taking you by the hips, not even waiting for you to shuck your t-shirt. He pulls until you’re stood in front of him, and then hooks your leg over his shoulder. 

So. Eric doesn’t need to be asked to go down on you, he just does. The gentleman. His hands are firm on your ass as he nuzzles into the patch of hair between your legs, and the precarious balancing act makes you snatch onto the back of the couch again. 

His tongue glides through the folds of your pussy slowly, methodically. You aren’t sure if he wants to take his time, or if he’s going slow so that he doesn’t make too much noise when doing it, but he latches onto your clit and sucks agonizingly softly, like he knows he should do it harder but won’t risk making you moan. 

It’s so gentle, and it builds. Pretty soon, you’re having a tough time keeping your whimpers in, even when he’s basically just teasing you, flicking his tongue over your clit with even the barest pressure. Your head has fallen back on your shoulders, your hand now clasped over your own mouth to stifle your sighs. 

Then, Eric’s hand glides up to splay across your lower back, and he sucks long and hard at your clit, and your hand squeezes murderously at the back of the couch while you ride out your orgasm on his tongue. 

Knees buckling, you collapse into Eric’s lap. He has a doe-eyed look on his face that’s way too innocent after what he just did to you. With panting breath and shaking hands, you cup his rosy cheeks in your palms, shaking your head in disbelief. 

Eric’s brows tilt in worry, like he did something wrong. He opens his mouth, but you put your fingers against his lips to silence him, and lean forward to breathe, “You’re too sweet for me, Eric.” 

He traces his fingers lightly up your spine, and turns his head. “Maybe one day I won’t have to be sweet. Maybe then I can really fuck you.” 

The sound of his whispering voice in your ear makes you shiver, your lust reaching a boiling point. The idea of him really fucking you– that this isn’t even him as normal, that he’s having to hold so much back– makes you burn hot all at once. That this isn’t something he’s planning on doing once. That there’s a ‘one day’ that he sees in the future with you in it. 

With a nod, your breath catches in your throat. You find your way to his mouth again, kissing him desperately. You can taste yourself lingering on his lips, and your hips rock forward against his again. 

Eric inhales sharply, stifling his own moan. You guess you have to take it just as slowly as he did, ease him into it. You work your hand beneath his unbuttoned fly and palm him, keeping your touch gentle against his hot skin. He shakes, his hands laid out against your spine, his eyes sparkling when he looks up at you. 

You push your forehead against his as you sink onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his size. His breath stutters as he tries to keep quiet, small puffs of air spilling out and meeting your electrified skin. You curl your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, rocking your hips just barely, settling into his lap. 

This is more intimate than you can ever remember being with anyone, but right now it just feels right. Maybe it could be cathartic to fuck like a couple of animals in the face of doom, but Eric pulls your body flush against his, one strong forearm around your waist, and his nose nudges yours, and you think this is better. This is what you both need. Closeness. Sweetness. 

There isn’t a lot of movement– you can’t risk it. You and Eric seem to be in agreement on that, because as soon as you start trying to move in earnest, he just pulls you back to him, his arm around your waist and his hand petting the back of your head. 

Eric rocks his hips up into yours slowly, deeply, and it’s the depth of it and the slow sensuality that keeps you floating. Your clit catches on the patch of hair at the base of his cock each time you roll your hips with him, and you have to kiss him to keep from keening aloud. He doesn’t seem to mind it. 

You know he’s close when he tucks his face against your neck, his arm tightening around you. “Feels so fucking good,” comes his whine in your ear, and you gently shush him, your hand resting on the back of his head to keep him muffled against your shoulder. You want so badly to look at his face when he cums, but there’s that pesky issue of staying alive, and that hinges on whether or not he can keep quiet when he does. 

To his credit, he bites your shoulder and only whimpers a little bit. It’s just a squeak, but really, he could have been much louder about it, and then you would have both been in trouble. Imagine having to run for your life with your pants down. 

Ever the gentleman, he keeps you there even after he’s spent and sensitive, his hand clamped down on your thigh to prevent you from moving. His thumb finds your clit, and he lifts his head to watch you, his hooded eyes trained on your face as he brings you to the edge and over it again. He watches the way your brows tilt up, the way you struggle to keep your own eyes open, and the silent moan that threatens to break past your parted lips.

Eric claps his hand down over your mouth before it can. Your eyes fly open, your cunt clenches down around him, and he bares his teeth as you cum hard. It’s cyclical, comes in waves as he continues to stroke you through it, as he keeps his hand clamped down on your mouth to keep you quiet. 

To keep you quiet. 

Feverish and exhausted, you come down with your chest against his, Eric’s head flopped back onto the backrest of the couch. Your knees fucking hurt and you have yet to get off of him, and you sort of dread the moment when you have to. But this means your mouth is positioned right next to Eric’s ear, and you’re nothing if not a talker.

“Eric?” you whisper, and he turns his head just enough to let you know he heard you. “I’m glad that I met you when I did. Even if it’s terrible timing, I’m glad we met.”

A sweet, tired smile flits across Eric’s beautiful face. He nudges his nose against your temple. “I’m glad, too.” 

You shift off of him, and he squeezes your thigh just at the same time as he scrunches his face. He’s such a trooper about it, you kiss his cheek as you go, leaning over to grab a pair of earphones from the coffee table. 

You hand one ear bud to him, watching as confusion crosses his face. He watches you type on your phone as he tucks the bud into his ear, and you the other. 

On low volume, you listen to the soft piano and saxophone intro to an old jazz standard. Eric grins, his hand finding your cheek before he pulls you in for a kiss. 

And then, Billie Holiday’s voice plays for only you two to hear. 

Living for you is easy living, It’s easy to live when you’re in love And I’m so in love, There’s nothing in life but you.

“Never been fucked… what a shame,” you tease lightly.

“It’s not fuckin’ funny-”

“Am I laughing?”

You pat his shoulder.

“Maybe I could help,” you purr.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“That’s not what my Fingers do.”

“Maybe I’m not meant to be a Finger,” you murmur, sitting up on your knees. “I’ve been good to you, yeah?”

He nods.

“I’d be gentle, Jimmy… I’d go slow…”

You lean in, your face inches from his.

Jimmy is behind you, buried deep inside, bumping your cervix and breathing ragged at the feeling.

“Move,” you tell him.

“C-can’t… yer so fuckin’ tight,” he gasps.

“Go slow.”

He starts off steady and evenly paced. You hear him sniffle and snicker.

“Fuck you,” he spits, smacking your ass.

“Well fuck me then,” you snarl.

He grabs your hips and slams in. He speeds up until his thighs slap yours every time he thrusts in.

“Shit,” you moan. “S’so deep…”

“F-fill ye up, fu-ck ye full,” he cries, his nails digging into your hips. “N-need ye drippin’ with me…”

“Give it to me, Jimmy, I-I need it…”

“S’yers, bonnie, take it,” he breathes, cock jumping when your cunt clenches around him.

“You’re twitching,” you tease.

“M’s-sensitive,” he whines.

“Fucking pathetic,” you joke back.

“Y’stupid bitch, I’m gonna fuck ye ‘til you cry,” he barks, smacking your ass again. “Get ye fuckin’ pregnant, m-make yer tits get all big… f-full of milk…”

He whimpers, shivering behind you.

“Gonna lose it so soon, Jimmy?”

“No! No, f-fuck,” he sniffles. “Ngh… s-so good… y-y’so w-wet, bonnie…”

If only you could see his face twisting up.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yeah, oh fuckin’ hell,” he groans, hardly audible over the obscene squelch of your cunt. “Yeah, take it… take this fuckin’ load, I-I’m cummin’! Oh, fuck! Sh-sh-”

He sobs, leaning over you as he shoots a load inside.

“You were really backed up, huh?”

“Sh-shut up,” he winces.

jimmy taglist

British Isles, in those years, had learned to exist in a state of perpetual suspension. Nothing was truly alive, nothing completely dead. After twenty-eight years, cities stood on crumbling concrete, the air constantly smelled of mold and stale rain, and silence had become a presence as tangible as noise once had been. Everything seemed to be holding its breath as if the world itself were waiting to decide whether it was still worth going on.

You existed within that pause.

When Ian Kelson found you three years earlier, you were little more than a human remnant, a hunched figure moving on instinct, dragged forward by the primary need for food. You had tried to attack him when he approached you cautiously, trusting humans no more than the infected. You were very young when quarantine was declared for all the islands, so it felt as though that reality was the only one you had ever known, turning you into something almost feral.

Hunger was no longer a sharp pain, but a constant emptiness, a dull presence that had blunted every other sensation, killing your humanity. You wandered without a true destination, guided only by the faded memory of places that had once been safe.

Kelson’s shelter had been a sudden interruption to that drift. An anomaly. A place where the virus had not completely won. The temple of bones seemed to carry an aura of protection and reverence for souls. You had never seen an infected wander nearby, as if they feared it.

At first, your role had been marginal, almost incidental. You could read, but the theories filling Ian’s notebooks seemed to belong to another life, another species. Formulas, charts, annotations trying to impose a rational structure on something that had destroyed the very concept of rationality. Understanding them had been difficult, often frustrating. Your mind tired before it could even follow the steps, and your body demanded increasingly frequent breaks.

But repetition did its work. Day after day, by watching, listening, helping in silence, you began to recognize patterns, to sense connections. You did not become a scientist, nor did you ever think you were one, but you learned enough to understand the ultimate goal of that work: not the elimination of the dead, but their liberation. Not victory over the infection, but its slowing, a deviation, a stumble in its relentless advance. Small steps toward a greater goal.

As time passed, your role became clearly defined. Your young body would become a expendable resource. Not because anyone forced it upon you, but because you yourself understood the implicit balance that sustained hope.

Ian represented possibility. You represented the energy that could be spent so that that possibility had room to exist.

And so, most of the time, it was you who went out.

By then, the streets had become defined paths, as if you had drawn a mental map. You knew the location of every residential complex not yet visited, every pharmacy to be scavenged, and you had even identified a hospital, several miles away—though you had never needed to go that far.

For three years, that routine held.

Until an unforeseen variable appeared.

Samson.

You had observed the Alpha from a distance when Kelson first established contact. A kind of infected that could not be reduced to a simple beast. It was not only his strength or endurance that made him different, but that disturbing semblance of awareness that surfaced at times in his movements, in the way he reacted to stimuli. Watching him was like seeing the infection reflected in a warped mirror, revealing something far too close to what had once been human.

The experiment with morphine marked the turning point.

At first, the changes were imperceptible, almost deniable. A tension easing, aggression dulling, a presence that ceased to be purely predatory. As days passed, however, the regression became evident.

Samson seemed more alert, more capable of comprehension. Until one day, he spoke.

For the first time, Ian’s work no longer felt like resistance, but like a true step forward.

And it was precisely at that moment that reality presented its bill.

Supplies were running out. Morphine, the key element of that regression, was dwindling rapidly. Every dose administered to Samson was a painful choice, a calculation heavier than any formula. Continuing meant risking everything. Stopping meant losing the only concrete proof that their work was not in vain.

And you understood the necessity before it was ever stated aloud. Ian would never have asked you directly—you knew him too well. It was one thing to remain in the wooded area, another to venture into a city, the most dangerous place of all.

But the outside world was your territory, your burden. Your body, now accustomed, was the most logical price to pay to buy time.

So you left the shelter once again, entrusting your departure to a few essential words hastily written on a blank sheet of paper, with the stubborn conviction that your return would be so swift it would come before anyone could even perceive your absence.

Reality, however, did not follow that prediction at all.

It's deep night when you come within a few handfuls of kilometers of the Temple. Your sense of distance is now distorted: given the late hour, you had no chance to take the shorter route, so you forced yourself through one last endless climb, a slow dragging onward against the weight of your body and your pack.

You move along the side of the tall hill with measured, almost hesitant steps, trying to plant your feet as firmly as possible into the ground. The damp grass bends beneath your worn soles—slick, treacherous—and gravity seems to tug cruelly at you, as if it were only waiting for a moment of distraction to pull you down.

The backpack that has weighed on your shoulders for days has left the muscles in your back aching from its heaviness. But it isn't only the physical weight of the supplies you managed to scrape together—it's the value they carry, the effort it took to obtain them, the risks you ran in every emptied building and every infested corridor. Still, you are finally at the end of your journey.

It has been more than three weeks since the last time you saw Kelson. Time has stretched in a strange way, turning into a confused sequence of nights spent in the open, abrupt awakenings and endless walking. And yet, the thought of his face returns with an almost painful clarity.

You catch yourself wondering what expression he will wear when you show him the case full of vials, the medicines carefully arranged in their various containers. You imagine his face lifting, if only for a moment, and that hope lighting up his gray eyes.

During your stay at the hospital, you acted with the caution of someone who knows nothing is ever final. You hid some supplies in a ventilation duct on the third floor, leaving a couple out in the open and clearly visible to see if anyone else might pass through.

An improvised cache, a promise made to the future, in case it became necessary to turn back—or to move away from the Temple for good.

But when you reach the top of the hill, something is different.

Kelson’s temple of bones is not shrouded in darkness as it should be. It's lit. A warm, unsettling light envelops it, staining it red and orange. Small lights are fastened to the hundreds of bone columns, following their irregular profiles, tracing lines that make the structure stand out even more—exposed—as if someone had wanted to put it on display rather than hide it.

You frown, a sudden tension slipping between your shoulder blades, and adjust the backpack more securely on your shoulders, tightening the straps as if they might offer some form of stability.

You keep moving, but your pace changes, it quickens. You slip into the forest at the base of the hill, letting the trees swallow you, letting their shadows break up your outline and grant you a measure of anonymity.

Questions begin to rise one after another, fast and intrusive.

It cannot be Kelson’s doing. He was not the kind of man who liked to draw attention to himself. And yet the alternative is far worse. If it was not him, then who was it? And for what purpose?

The light is not random. It's a signal. But for whom? And what if Kelson had taken a gamble? What if something happened during your absence—something that made it necessary to expose himself, to draw attention, to take a risk?

You move between the trunks, avoiding low branches, listening to the muffled sound of your footsteps on the damp ground and straining to catch any others. The forest seems to hold every sound, amplifying the beat of your heart and the rustle of fabric against your skin.

When you reach a small natural promontory within the forest, you stop. You set the backpack down carefully, covering it with a layer of leaves and debris, camouflaging it as you have learned to do over time. Then you climb one of the taller trees, until the trees ahead of you thin out and your line of sight drops just enough.

The temple comes partially back into view, filtered through the trunks. You raise the binoculars hanging from your neck and look through them.

The scene takes shape with disturbing clarity, as if distance no longer existed. Kelson is there, at the center of the bone cemetery—but he is not the man you left nearly a month ago. You had never seen him wearing a leather coat like that, one that looks as if it were stolen from someone else. His torso is bare, but smeared with ash or something similar—you cannot tell from here.

He stands near the altar, beside the mountain of skulls that dominates the heart of the temple. The bones, lit by the red and orange glow of the fires burning all around, cast broken shadows that crawl up the columns, warping the space and making everything look almost ritualistic.

Kelson moves with controlled slowness, as if he were addressing animals that might leap for his throat at any moment.

You see him approach a man standing in front of him. He is wearing a tracksuit and has long blond hair.

Ian raises his hands and takes the man’s face between his fingers, a gesture that might seem intimate if it were not charged with a tension you can feel even from where you are. You cannot make out what he is saying or doing.

Only then do you realize they are not alone.

Behind the blond man stand four other people, all aligned on the same line. They wear the same tracksuits, have the same light hair, the same alien look. They watch one another in silence, exchanging quick glances, communicating without words. Their stillness is not passive—it's alert.

Confusion hits you. Your mind scrambles desperately for meaning, for an explanation that does not come. Those people do not belong to the shelter, they are not part of Kelson’s work, they have nothing to do with the precarious balance you had built.

The sense that something is profoundly wrong grows until it becomes almost physical, a knot tightening in your stomach.

You move on instinct, trying to climb down from the branch you are straddling, but you do not have time to complete the motion. From the undergrowth below comes a wet, broken, unmistakable sound. Dragging footsteps, muffled gurgles—a collection of noises your brain immediately recognizes as a threat.

You freeze.

In the shadows, about a dozen infected stagger without a clear direction, bumping into one another, emitting guttural sounds that blend with the rustle of leaves. Their movements are uncoordinated, but not random. They are looking for something. Someone.

Your gaze slips from them to the temple and back again, trapped between two dangers that seem ready to collide.

You cannot leave Kelson alone. That certainty asserts itself over everything else, crushing every other consideration.

And yet, you are terribly exposed. The only weapon you have is the machete sheathed across your back. A brutal, close-quarters solution against a number of enemies you cannot even quantify precisely. You can make out at least five pairs of eyes shining in the dark, but the sounds spreading through the forest suggest there are many more, hidden beyond your field of view.

Frustration mounts in your head like sudden pressure. You find yourself banging your forehead against the rough trunk, an instinctive, almost childish gesture that eases nothing. Time seems to speed up and slow down at the same moment.

Your hands tremble as you bring the binoculars back to your eyes, forcing yourself to focus again on the scene before you.

The man who had been standing just steps away from Kelson has now moved off. He is facing the others, gesturing, and even from a distance his body language betrays agitation. His shoulders are rigid, his movements sharp.

The figure in the red uniform—whom you had not clearly noticed before—moves toward him insistently. The way she bears down on him, even just with her presence, has nothing conciliatory about it.

Among that group, one of the younger ones keeps himself apart. His posture is different, more closed in, as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. He does not follow the exchange with the same confidence as the others; instead, he seems conflicted, uncertain, perhaps frightened. Your gaze lingers on him longer than intended, as if that hesitation might hide an explanation, or a foothold.

A sudden movement tears you away from that observation.

When you turn the binoculars back on Kelson, your breath catches in your throat. His body is bent slightly forward, one hand pressed against his bare abdomen. Between his fingers you glimpse the hilt of a knife protruding from the flesh, driven in with a violence that leaves no room for doubt. The blond man’s arm withdraws, guilty and cold, as if the act had been nothing more than a necessary formality, and then he steps away, returning to interact with the others, indifferent to the consequences.

The young guy who had stayed apart lunges forward, running toward Kelson with clumsy, desperate movements.

You can no longer think. The scene shatters before your eyes as Kelson loses his balance and collapses to the ground. The world narrows to that image, to that falling body.

Tears fill your eyes before you can stop them, your vision blurs, and a violent knot tightens your throat, making every breath an act of pain.

Your body moves before your mind can object.

You climb down from the tree almost without realizing it, leaving your pack hidden among the leaves where you placed it, and your hands grip the machete with a certainty you do not truly feel.

The first infected you reach does not have time to react: the blade sinks into its head with a dull blow, and you have to wrench it free to pull the weapon from its skull.

The corpse collapses to the ground, welcomed by the damp earth, and before you can even process what you have just done, you start running.

The forest, which moments before had hidden you, now betrays you. Dozens of eyes watch you, follow you, but you think only of running.

You race down the hill in record time, exposed roots and slick ground trying to throw you down at every step, yet you keep going with a speed you did not believe you still possessed.

Your lungs burn when you reach the river that separates your area from the temple grounds, and there you stop short, paralyzed.

The river is swollen.

The water rushes violently, churning, loaded with who knows what debris spinning in the current. The noise is deafening, drowning out everything else and forcing a searing truth upon you: you cannot cross that damn river. It would be a certain death.

The sound of rapid footsteps behind you snaps you out of that forced stillness. You move on instinct at the last second, and one of the infected rushes past you, loses its footing, and plunges into the icy water. For a moment you see it thrash, then the current seizes it and drags it away.

More gurgles, more animal cries rise behind you—closer, more numerous.

You have no choice.

You start running again, forced to skirt the river, following its course while your heart hammers in your chest and your muscles begin to tremble with the effort. Every second lost weighs like a boulder, and you cannot tear your eyes away from the fire burning less than a kilometer away.

When you finally manage to reach the other side, you understand it immediately: it's too late.

You stumble as the scene before you finally takes shape, as if your brain needs a few extra seconds to accept it.

You spare only a quick glance for the blond man secured on a cross upside down, his face streaked with sweat and terror. It's an image you barely register, background noise destined to fade immediately. You almost forget him the moment your eyes settle on the other man.

Kelson.

You drop to your knees so fast that you feel them strike the hard surface of a skull, yet the pain fails to register.

He is there, slumped against the bones, his breathing uneven. Every inhale seems to cost him an immense effort, as if the air itself had turned against him.

“Kelson! Kelson, you’re losing too much blood.”

Your voice comes out fragile in the face of what is before you. Your hands move frantically as you lift the skin covering his shoulders, trying to reach the wound, to do something—anything. The blood is still pouring out, warm, dark, unstoppable, slipping past your fingers even though the knife is still driven deep into the flesh.

The tears finally break through the dam. They slide down your cheeks without your being able to stop them, falling onto him, mingling with the blood.

“Oh, my dear girl.” Ian sighs softly, a weak sound, and uses what little energy he has left to take your hands in his. His fingers tremble as he draws you away from the wound, with a gentleness that breaks your heart. “I thought I wouldn’t have the chance to say goodbye to you properly.”

You shake your head hard, as if you could refuse those words, erase them.

“Don’t—don’t talk. We have to take you back to the shelter. We have to close the wound, stop the bleeding, we have to—”

He lets out a small, choked laugh, brief and painful, and lifts a hand to rest it against your mouth, stopping that desperate jumble of words. The touch is light, but final.

In the background you hear the whimpering, disjointed prayers of the blond man. His voice creeps in like unbearable background noise. For a second you think of standing up, crossing the distance between you, and cutting his throat just to make him shut up—but Kelson keeps you there, anchoring you, his gaze heavy with a nostalgia you had only ever seen when he spoke to you of his wife.

“I remember a time when it was hard to get even a single syllable out of you. I need you to listen to me now.” He takes a deep breath, as if gathering what remains of himself. “I left notes in the shelter, information I gathered as I moved forward with my research.”

He coughs, and a thin line of blood slides down his chin. Without thinking, you lift a sleeve and wipe it away.

“You can follow those to continue the experiments.”

“What are you saying?! You’ll explain them to me yourself, step by step.” Your voice trembles as you blink hard, trying to clear the tears that have pooled there.

Kelson only smiles. A small, tired, but genuine smile. Before he can add anything else, however, something behind you catches his attention. His eyes shift slightly.

You turn sharply.

Standing in front of the cross is Samson.

His body bears the clear marks of a fight: deep bites, torn and hanging skin, dried blood staining his flesh. And yet he is still there. Standing. Heedful.

“Kelson.” His voice is rough, distinctly altered, but it's his. It's not the monster’s snarl, not the Alpha’s fury, not the virus’s whisper. It's Samson.

You look at him, stunned and aching.

“Samson,” Kelson replies in turn.

“Thank you,” Samson adds at last.

You watch the Alpha step forward and then shift his gaze to you. From this close, you notice what steals your breath: the red that once flooded his eyes has almost entirely vanished. The veil has thinned, allowing something human to surface—something you recognize as true lucidity.

When you turn back to Kelson, his gaze is fixed upward. His chest no longer moves. His breathing has stopped.

“Let me take him.”

You take a step back, your legs suddenly weak. You let Samson bend down onto his thighs—enormous, twice the size of your head—and lift Ian into his arms with almost reverent care.

“Where are you taking him?” you ask, rising with him and following for a few steps, unable to stay still.

“Rest.” It is the only answer Samson gives you.

As you pass in front of the cross, you hear the blond man’s voice reach you.

Samson keeps walking, but you stop.

Your bloodshot eyes turn toward him, and you allow yourself a few seconds to truly look at him, noting with grim satisfaction that he has not merely been secured to the cross.

He has been crucified.

“Father…” he whimpers deliriously, eyes closed. “Why have you forsaken me?”

A raw, naked rage crashes over you, floods you without leaving any escape. It's he who stabbed Kelson. He is the reason Kelson is dead. He is the reason you will be alone forever.

You draw the blood‑slick machete from its sheath, and the sound seems to vibrate between the columns of bone.

That sound, more than any word, reaches him.

The blond man jerks on the cross, blood dripping to the ground as the movement worsens his wounds. With obvious effort he opens his eyes, as if each eyelid weighed as much as stone, and when his gaze lands on you, you see it change instantly.

His eyes fly open unnaturally wide, round and glassy, like tennis balls set into a face suddenly stripped of all control. His pupils quiver, unable to truly focus on you, and from his half‑open mouth a string of drool spills downward—or upward, for him—following gravity in reverse.

He breathes unevenly, in short, broken gasps, like a trapped animal that has just realized it has reached the end.

“M‑me… me highness…” he stammers, his voice fractured, warped by his position and by panic. His tongue trips over the words as he desperately tries to pull himself together. “Please… please, me queen…”

The title hits you like a slap, making you grimace and take a step back.

“Highness…” he continues, louder, faster, as if your retreat has shaken him. “I… I have always been faithful. Always. A devoted servant.” His voice trembles, breaks into a hysterical sob. “I did what I was told. Everything. Every single thing.”

He whimpers in pain as one of his wrists tightens around the nail. “Don’t let me die like this.” The words spill out all at once, tears mixing with sweat on his forehead. “I beg you, Mother.”

He calls you by other names, one after another—empty, desperate titles. Each sentence is a clumsy attempt to rewrite reality, to turn himself from executioner into victim, from guilty to faithful.

You look down at him.

The world around you seems to have narrowed to that man nailed in place, to his fear seeping away along with the saliva.

The machete is steady in your hand. You feel the weight of the blade, its perfect balance. One strike is all it would take—a simple, clean, righteous gesture. For Kelson.

Everything in you tightens, ready to spring, and you raise the machete.

The blade catches the firelight, reflecting a warm red, almost sacramental—and he sees it.

He sees it and truly begins to cry, a broken, childish sobbing made of fractured, confused sounds.

“Oh God…”

You are a breath away from striking when Kelson’s voice reaches you.

It isn’t real. It can’t be. And yet it's there, clear, as if it had always been a part of you.

“We do not kill out of hatred.”

The sentence slips between your arm and your will, forcing you to freeze mid-air.

It's a rule. A principle. Something that was not yours at first, but that was taught to you. A line that separates what you are from what the world has become.

You drop to one knee and grab one of the two nails, his blood mingling with Kelson’s, which still stains your skin.

“I hope it hurts.”

And then you pull hard.

The fever had devoured him slowly. For days, the blond man’s body had remained suspended in a liminal state, trapped between delirium and wakefulness, between physical pain and mental anguish. The wounds—treated summarily and cauterized just enough to keep him from dying—had done the rest. The acrid smell of burned flesh had lingered on your clothes for a long time, even after repeated soakings in the river.

You had witnessed everything without intervening more than necessary. You watched him thrash, mutter disjointed words, call out names you didn’t recognize, beg entities that meant nothing to you. Sometimes he screamed. Other times he cried silently, eyes wide and fixed on something he wasn’t really seeing.

Samson stood watch like a massive shadow—silent, immobile. His presence had become part of the temple itself, a living column among the bones. He hardly ever spoke. When he did, it was only to confirm what you already knew: that the man was not dying, that the fever was running its course, that the body was fighting.

Days and nights bled into one another, marked only by the guy’s labored breathing and by your tasks, studying and following the notes Kelson had written for you.

When the fever finally broke and the man returned to reason, the first thing he managed to say was his own name.

Jimmy Crystal.

That was the moment you declared him healed. Not completely—just enough.

Enough for Samson to kick him out of your life. Literally.

“W-wait—wait a second—!” he stammers as his tracksuit-clad legs drag across the ground, too weak to brace themselves.

Jimmy Crystal’s body sails past the imaginary boundary separating the inside from the outside of the bone cemetery and tumbles into the tall grass. He rolls clumsily a couple of times, then comes to a stop on his back. He coughs violently, the air exploding in his lungs from the impact.

You stay where you are.

Samson returns to your side at an unhurried pace, as if he has just completed a trivial task, but you don’t look at him. Your eyes remain fixed on Jimmy.

You watch him struggle to move. He rolls onto his side, then onto his knees. His legs shake when he tries to stand, his feet probably still bleeding, the wounds not fully closed.

He staggers, but stays upright, his face tight with pain.

You feel nothing. No trace of remorse.

Whatever Kelson would have done, you did. You have no reason to feel guilty for throwing him out.

Jimmy limps slightly, one hand pressed to the wound at his side that you had bandaged and treated.

“You can’t just throw me out like this!” he shouts, his voice cracked, incredulous.

You look down at him from the small rise, motionless and cold.

“I just did.”

Jimmy shuffles forward, in a futile attempt to reach you.

“Where do ye expect me to go? I can’t even close my fucking hands.” Panic spreads as he waves his wrists in front of himself, the nerves still damaged. His blond curls, dirty with dried blood and sweat, fall into his face. He’s forced to shake his head several times to clear them, an awkward motion that makes him wobble slightly. Every movement seems to cost him an excessive effort.

You watch him without haste.

“That’s not my problem.” You extend a hand and touch Samson’s shoulder in a final gesture. “Let’s go.”

The word hasn’t even faded from the air before he breaks.

“No! Please!” His voice cracks. “I’ll die out here! I can help ye. I can serve ye well.”

There’s something pathetic in the way he says it, in the desperate attempt to reframe himself as something useful, something necessary. You slowly raise an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch. The machete is within reach, and the thought of ending his suffering flickers through your mind again.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that,” you ask with cutting calm, “if, as you said, you can’t even close your hands?”

Jimmy swallows. His cracked lips tremble as he searches for an answer that doesn’t come right away.

“I–I… I don’t know…” he stammers. Then, faster, as if speed could make up for the emptiness: “But I learn quickly!”

You glare at him.

“I’m giving you five minutes to disappear.”

The sentence falls like a verdict.

Jimmy collapses onto his knees, the movement abrupt and uncoordinated. His hands—those hands he claims he can’t close—come together in front of him in an instinctive, pleading gesture. Sweat beads on his forehead almost immediately, sliding down his temples.

He’s pale—too pale. His body trembles under the weight of still-open wounds, of a fever that hasn’t truly released him yet.

“Mercy,” he whispers. “I beg ye, mercy.”

The word draws a short, incredulous laugh from you. There’s something almost amusing, and at the same time deeply offensive, in his request.

“Mercy?” you repeat, tilting your head slightly. “I’m showing you mercy.”

You step closer, just enough for him to meet your eyes. “This morning I woke up thinking about breaking your legs and leaving you to crawl into the woods.”

You see him stiffen.

“But here you are,” you continue, pointing at his bent legs, “and your legs still work. Don’t they?”

You draw your weapon and lift his chin with the flat of the blade, forcing him to look at the sky.

“I suggest you get moving if you want to avoid walking through the woods at night.”

The silence that follows is heavy. You watch him one last time: the man who believed himself untouchable, reduced to begging in the dirt; the faithful one, the executioner, now nothing more than a problem left to the outside world.

The sun has not fully risen yet when you open your eyes again in the shelter. Your gaze drifts to the small empty cot a short distance away, where Jimmy had rested to recover from the fever.

The previous night had been a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, swinging from the anxiety of finding him still lurking on the little hill to the relief when you realized he was gone. You had combed through every corner of the cemetery, your heart pounding with the fear that he might have hidden himself in some dark crevice, ready to strike when you least expected it.

But no—there was no trace of him.

Your body protests against the hours spent on the hard mattress, but adrenaline is already coursing through you. You stretch, feeling your joints crack like dry branches, and gather your weapons with the precision of someone who knows every second matters.

The hunting knife, sharp and reliable, strapped to your thigh; the trusted machete secured across your back; and the longbow Kelson had built with his own hands, before—well, before that bastard took him from you.

The arrows are rudimentary, carved wooden shafts with crow feathers for fletching, but lethal in the right hands. You slide them into the improvised quiver—a reinforced plastic tube held together with duct tape—and head toward the forest.

You haven’t returned there since that fateful night, except to quickly set a few traps for rabbits and squirrels near the river. The woods are still crawling with infected, but you need to recover the backpack with the medical supplies more than anything else.

Samson hasn’t been seen around this morning. Maybe he’s gone exploring as he often did, or maybe he’s sleeping somewhere.

The forest greets you with its usual agitated murmur of birds, broken only by the rustle of leaves beneath your worn boots. The air is cool, heavy with the smell of damp earth and distant decay.

You reach the bag first, hidden beneath a pile of dry branches you had hastily arranged during your previous escape. With hands trembling from anticipation, you open the side pouch.

Thankfully, everything is still there: intact bottles of pills, rolls of clean gauze, and the precious case of morphine. Nothing has been lost.

A sigh of relief escapes your lips, but you don’t allow yourself the luxury of relaxing. The forest is calm this morning but the sounds of the undergrowth animals are louder than expected: squirrels darting through the branches, birds chirping in open defiance of danger.

It’s a good sign; it likely means there are no infected nearby.

You walk on for a while, senses alert, bow ready in hand. You find the end of one of your traps, a thin cable stretched between the trees, and follow it carefully, making as little noise as possible.

When you reach the end, however, you find the cable hanging loose from the tree, cut clean through as if by a sharp blade.

The prey is gone.

You frown, crouching to examine the cut. It’s far too clean to be the work of an animal. Could one of the infected have managed to grab it despite the height? Or had the animal freed itself in a desperate burst of strength? No—the cable is severed cleanly, not gnawed through.

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Fuck…” you mutter under your breath, your voice a hoarse whisper. Someone—or something—has interfered.

You start remaking the snare, searching for a higher position on the nearby tree. Climbing is an effort, your muscles burning from the accumulated tension, but you need to make sure it’s out of reach.

Just before fixing it in place, the sound of disturbed foliage makes you tense like a drawn bowstring.

You aim your weapon in that direction, your heart racing.

You take a few steps forward toward the mass of trees and bushes, your eyes scanning the shadows—and then you notice it: the sounds of the animals have stopped abruptly.

The forest, alive and noisy only moments before, has plunged into a deathly silence.

That’s when it happens.

An infected fast one bursts out from the nearby hillside, screaming with that guttural sound that freezes your blood in your veins. It’s one of the fast ones—lean and aggressive, eyes bloodshot, skin torn by old wounds. Its leap is lightning‑quick, landing just a few meters from you with a thud that makes the ground tremble.

You don’t think—you act.

You start running, legs pumping with everything you have, trying to reach a more open, defensible spot to fight. The forest thickens, branches claw at your face and roots threaten to trip you, but you don’t stop until you find a steep embankment surrounded by dense vegetation.

You flatten yourself against a natural hollow and wait, holding your breath.

The infected—there are at least three now, drawn by the first—pass close by, grunting and sniffing the air like hunting dogs. Their putrid stench hits you full force. You count the seconds, praying they won’t catch your scent.

Finally, silence returns.

Carefully, you slip out of the hollow, using the low branches to steady yourself so you don’t slip, and you let out a breath of relief as you brush the sticky mud off your pants, your hands trembling with leftover adrenaline.

But when you turn, the world stops.

An infected is just a meter from you, teeth bared in a silent snarl, eyes empty and ravenous. It came out of nowhere, maybe hidden behind a rotting trunk.

You drop your pack to the ground and grab for the machete, your hand brushing the familiar grip, but you understand instantly that you won’t make it. Its leap is imminent, arms stretched out to grab you.

Time seems to slow: flashes of Kelson teaching you formulas, nights spent running, a world that was once normal, your parents and their outstretched hands, waiting for you.

Then a sharp, violent sound rips through the silence—an awful crack, like bones shattering under a brutal impact.

The infected’s head explodes into a red‑and‑gray pulp, slimy fragments splattering onto nearby branches and your jacket. A rock, as big as a soccer ball, slams into it from the side with inhuman force, sending it crashing heavily to the ground, its body writhing in its death throes.

Blood sprays onto the damp earth, mixing with the mud, and the air fills with a wet gurgle until it breathes its last.

You blink, confused, the world slowly snapping back into focus, and the first thing you register is Jimmy Crystal standing over the beast’s body.

He’s out of breath, hands smeared with dirt and blood, still gripping the remnants of the rock he used as an improvised weapon. He exhales deeply and smiles, his gray eyes never leaving yours. There’s something sick in that look.

“Fuckin' hell, that was close.”

He’s still wearing that short‑sleeved white T‑shirt you’d put on him, stained with blood and dirt, and at his side hangs a dead rabbit, its neck cinched with a cord—the same one you’d set as a trap.

You glare at him, eyes narrowed in a mix of anger and disbelief.

“Didn’t I tell you to disappear?” Your voice comes out sharp, a low hiss not to draw more infected, but loaded with all your pent‑up fury.

He bends awkwardly, ignoring your burning stare, to retrieve the bow that slipped from your hands when you’d reached for the machete strapped to your waist.

His fingers brush the weapon without gripping it, and before he can lift it, you storm forward and wrench the bow from his hands with a violent yank.

He whimpers in pain, a sharp, hurt sound that makes your teeth clench—the wrists are healing slowly, and you know every movement sends searing jolts through him, like red‑hot needles under the skin.

“I don’t know where else to go,” he whispers, his voice rasping and pleading, gray eyes fixed on you, full of a vulnerability that disarms and enrages you at the same time.

“Anywhere but here,” you snap, pressing the tip of the bow against his stomach.

He whines, a weak and childish, jerking back abruptly—and that makes you suspicious.

Ignoring his attempt to pull away, you step closer and, in one quick motion, grab his white T‑shirt and yank it up to inspect the wound in his side.

The skin is red and swollen, yellowish streaks of pus seeping from beneath the makeshift stitches.

It’s infected. Clearly.

You twist your mouth in a grimace of disgust and irritation. “You can’t even take care of your wounds properly? What are you, a child?”

He trembles slightly, as he always does when you’re close—not from cold, but from something you can’t quite name. It’s as if your presence intimidates him, makes him small despite being a relatively strong man.

He could fight back. Kick you in the ribs, head‑butt you, punch you with those calloused hands. And yet, he doesn’t.

You threatened him brutally, yes—but are you really that frightening to him? Or is it something else that makes him docile, almost submissive, at your feet?

What had he seen that night to make him give you those titles?

“I’m sorry…” he mutters, eyes glazing over. He bites his lower lip, avoiding your gaze for a second, then lifts it again with renewed fervor, staring at you with that sick devotion. He grabs the rabbit hanging at his waist and holds it out to you. “I caught it for ye. An offering… to show you I can be useful.”

The forest around you is still quiet, but you know it won’t last. The infected could return, drawn by the blood. You let the shirt fall, covering the infected wound, and take a step back, ready to retreat as you pick up your pack with one hand.

“I don’t want your offerings,” you growl.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving.”

“Why—why the hell are you so stubborn?!” you snap.

“Because I live by yer grace, and I continue to exist as yer humble instrument in this world.”

Sunlight filters through the branches, bathing the undergrowth in a deceptive glow, and a shiver runs down your spine. It’s not just fear of the infected—it’s him.

You could kill him now, with an arrow to the heart, and end it all. But something stops you—maybe the lingering gratitude for saving you from the infected, or maybe the way he looks at you, as if you’re his only salvation.

You’d had that look for someone once, a long time ago.

“Move,” you say at last, tossing the heavy pack at his feet for him to take. “We’re going back to the temple. And if you try anything, I swear I’ll put you back on that fucking cross myself.”

He nods eagerly, a trembling smile lighting up his face, and follows you like a shadow.

Antipathy is a solid wall between you two in the early days.

You don’t trust him—but how could you?

He killed Kelson, the man who taught you how to survive, how to set traps, how to treat wounds and give you hope.

You treat him with calculated coldness, assigning him menial tasks—cleaning the shelter, gathering firewood—and he obeys without a single complaint.

But his obsession seeps through the cracks. He told you that on the night you freed him from the cross, he saw the Mother in you. You don’t know exactly what he meant, but it sounded like some absurd sacred or satanic concept.

This dependency of his frightens and reassures you at the same time because, as completely delirious as he can be at times, he has never tried to hurt you or invade your space.

Samson, during one of your experimentation sessions, seemed to sense something and told you, “He strange type. Send away.”

But you don’t—not yet. He saved your life in the woods, and in that world, where the infected howl at night and survivors are few, a living, breathing human being—however disturbed—might mean less loneliness.

Weeks pass, and the relationship moves forward like a winding path until one morning the fracture occurs.

Your eyes open and there, crouched with his head resting on the mattress of your cot, Jimmy is asleep—or pretending to be—wearing a serene, almost childlike expression and one of his hands is stretched out toward your knee.

He looks almost younger when he sleeps, with the wrinkles around his eyes smoothed out, and his long blond hair falling over his face like a messy curtain. Washing it the day before did him good, even if the roots still look slightly damaged.

You reach out a hand, almost without thinking, and gently brush his hair away from his face to see him better.

At your touch he barely reacts. His eyelids lift a fraction and gray eyes surface, clouded with sleep and a gentle confusion, far from any alarm. For a moment he seems not to understand where he is, then his gaze anchors on you and a small smile stretches across his lips.

“'Morning,” he sighs, and before you can pull your hand back, he leans forward and places a kiss on the inside of your wrist. The gesture is shallow, almost like the brush of a feather leaving aside the roughness of his beard, but it makes you shiver. It’s an uncomfortable, ambiguous sensation, a tangle of unease and something you can’t—or don’t want to—define right away.

It isn’t pleasure, not entirely. But it isn’t revulsion either.

You don’t push him away, you don’t slap him as you have so many times before when his gestures crossed the line you drew between you. You stay there, propped on one elbow, your heart beating an irregular rhythm.

Jimmy notices the absence of that immediate rejection. His gray eyes widen slightly, a glimmer of hope—or perhaps triumph—lighting up his face.

He says nothing at first, but his body reacts for him. The hand brushing your knee moves silently, as if not wanting to be noticed, and grip the edge of the light blanket that had covered you during the night: a thin, tattered sheet salvaged from an abandoned car months ago.

He slowly pulls it away, exposing the bare flesh of your legs to the cool dawn filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. His fingers meet your skin—warm, marked by old and new scars—and pause for a moment, as if savoring the moment he has been waiting for.

“Father, give me strength…” he murmurs, hoarse and aroused, laden with an adoration that makes you grit your teeth. He isn’t hurried like an impatient lover, but careful and methodical like a priest officiating a rite.

He places one knee on the improvised mattress, the weight making the sleeping bag creak beneath him, and slips between your open legs at the foot of the bed.

His body, covered only by his shirt and black pants, leans forward, his hands slowly sliding up your calves, brushing your skin with light, almost timid touches, yet heavy with a repressed desire that makes his fingers tremble.

“Let me adore ye,” he whispers, his eyes fixed on yours, glossy with excitement and gratitude. You feel the hard calluses of his hands stroking the inside of your legs, starting from your knees and moving upward slowly, tracing invisible lines. “Ye need it, I can feel it.” He grows bolder at your lack of reaction, pressing lightly against the soft flesh of your thighs and massaging with a methodical pressure that makes you stiffen and focus on the unexpected warmth rising in your lower belly.

He places his other hand on your side, beneath the worn shirt you use as a nightgown, his fingers brushing the curve of your hip with a gentleness that contrasts with everything he is.

Jimmy bends down further, his warm breath dampening the skin of your legs as his lips draw closer. Not kissing yet—waiting. “I am yer devoted servant,” he continues, his excited voice dragging. “Just say one word, Mother. Just one.” he pleads again, but he does not meet your gaze, afraid of finding the hatred and disgust that usually carve your features whenever you look at him.

But that is not what fills your expression right now.

How long had it been since someone had put their hands on you for a purpose other than the violent, aggressive one of an infected?

You can’t say for certain, and your brain isn’t helping at all. Your thoughts are muddled when that man’s touch is so close to the place where you want it most.

His fingers brush the edge of your panties and stop there, waiting, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin just below, a gesture that makes your muscles clench involuntarily.

You shift your gaze slightly and clearly notice the outline of an erection beneath his pants, resting against his thigh. Obviously, the bastard was well endowed.

Jimmy is a disturbed child in a man’s body, but there is something in the way he idolizes you that stirs something primal.

You don’t care what he saw that night. You don’t care what he sees now. What matters is what you want.

“Please,” Jimmy pleads again, his voice reduced to a feverish whisper, broken by the tension running through him. His gray eyes shine with an almost painful faith, once again fixed on you like those of a believer awaiting grace.

“Alright.” The word leaves your lips in a murmur, but the blond catches it perfectly because his smile widens, though you quickly add, “No fucking funny business or I’ll break your neck.”

A stupid laugh escapes his lips and his breath hits you over the fabric. You have to bite your lip to hold back the moan that rises in your throat.

“Aye, me queen. It never crossed me mind.…” He doesn’t waste time and starts pulling your panties down.

When the fabric pulls away from your wet vulva, a thin, transparent strand of arousal still connects it to you. A glossy, viscous bridge that testifies to how much his touch and his adoration have already made you react despite your conflicting thoughts.

Jimmy stares at it, enchanted, eyes wide with pure wonder, but wisely says nothing. He doesn’t want you to change your mind and push him away.

He removes the panties completely, breaking that filamentous connection and leaving a warm drop against your skin and tosses them aside, unconcerned with where they land.

He bends further between your open legs, almost lying on his stomach and lifting you slightly upward to reach you more easily.

His warm breath hits you first, an anticipation that makes you tremble involuntarily, and then his tongue arrives. He starts with a wide, flat lick from your entrance up to your clit, tasting you as if you produced divine nectar, a deep moan vibrating against you as he does.

You throw your head back and let it knock against the earthen wall.

“Lord…” he pants between licks, his voice muffled against your wet flesh. “So fuckin' sweet.”

His tongue becomes more insistent, tracing slow circles around your swollen button, then moving down to explore the folds, as if wanting to memorize every detail.

His hands hold your thighs open with firm gentleness when you try to close them guided by pleasure, his fingers sinking slightly into the flesh.

Through half-lidded eyes, you see his body pressing into the mattress, the bulge in his pants rubbing in search of relief, but he ignores himself, focused only on you.

Not hearing you, Jimmy looks up and sees you clenching your jaw, fingers gripping the mattress beneath you.

“No, no,” he whines, pulling back slightly and nearly earning a punch to the face, “I want to hear ye… know that I’m serving ye well.” Every word is a warm breath against your pussy, vibrating over sensitive skin.

“Fuck, fine… fine…” you sigh, and Jimmy seems satisfied because his mouth returns to its diligent work, his tongue pushing inside you greedily, and this time you don’t hold back the moan that spills from your lips.

The pleasure builds slowly, inevitably, as if letting go has granted you access to the primary objective. Your hand tightens in his blond hair to guide him, more roughly than intended, but from the pathetic sound that escapes him, it doesn’t seem you made a wrong move.

And Jimmy responds quickly, his tongue accelerating obediently.

“Clever boy…” you can’t help but sigh as the wet heat of his mouth brings you to the edge.

You don’t last long. Your body, starved for human contact after years of solitude, responds with an intensity that surprises you.

When you come, it’s with a moan perhaps too pornographic, your thighs tightening around his head, and he drinks it all, licking eagerly down to the last drop, savoring your aftershocks.

He continues even when you become too sensitive and you pull back, pushing him away with a foot to his shoulder. He collapses backward, panting, his face slick with your arousal.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, the white shirt plastered to his sweaty skin, and you immediately notice that the bulge in his pants is still there, probably aching.

He looks away, instinctively trying to cover himself with one hand, but you stop him halfway through the gesture, reminding him who's in charge.

"Don't." you order, stepping fully into the role he's been so desperate for you to take. You shift into a more comfortable position. "Let me see."

Jimmy whines pathetically, his hands falling to the fly. "Yes, ma'am..." he mutters, his voice trembling as he lowers his pants and underwear, letting them slide down his strong legs and tossing them aside just like your panties.

His cock throbs visibly, slick with pre-cum. It's big, veiny, and he hisses loudly when the air hits it.

"The shirt too," you continue, moving onto all fours and drawing closer as he removes the last garment.

You kneel beside his half-reclined body and lift a hand to brush over his bare chest, slowly moving down to the abdomen marked by the wound you treated yourself.

"Poor boy," you murmur cruelly, your fingers pressing against the scabbed surface of the injury, making him stiffen and whine like an animal. His hard cock, however, jerks upward, slapping against his stomach, clearly overstimulated. "You like it, don't you? You're fucking sick."

He nods eagerly, eyes full with frustrated, aroused tears. "Yes... fuck, yes. Do whatever ye want. I'm all yers, me queen."

You take him in hand firmly, not gently, squeezing at the base just enough to make him jerk. "Look at how pathetic you are," you say, pumping slowly, torturing him with uneven, languid movement—squeeze, release, brush just the head with your thumb, spreading the sticky fluid. "A grown man whining for a few crumbs."

"I deserve only what ye give me, ma'am" he pants, arching into your hand.

You speed up for a moment, making him moan loudly, then stop abruptly, leaving him pulsing in empty air. He whimpers, hips lifting uselessly.

"Oh, God..."

"No god here, Jimmy." You rise, pushing him further down onto the mattress with your combined weight, and straddle him. Your weight pins him, your wet vagina brushing his glans without quite touching it.

"Quiet now," you whisper, grabbing his scarred, bandaged wrists, kissing them gently as he stares at you, dazed. "Let the queen take care of her pathetic little bitch."

You lower yourself slowly, taking him inside with a gradual movement. You feel every inch filling you, starting with the smooth, warm head, aided by your lingering arousal and his pre-cum lubricating everything. Then the rest follows—every vein brushing your inner walls makes you clench involuntarily, gripping him in a tight vice that tears a cry from him, a guttural sound of relief mixed with pain.

He wants to thrust into you—you can tell from the way his hands claw at the fabric beneath you.

"Mother... Mother, please..." His gray eyes roll back for a moment before locking onto yours again, shining in the dim light.

"Don't move," you command quietly, leaning forward so your covered breasts brush his bare chest. "You are not in charge here."

You sink fully down, taking him all the way until your ass rests on his thighs. His cock throbs inside you, an irregular pulse echoing his racing heart, and you feel how completely he fills you.

You stay still for a long moment, savoring that deep connection—not just physical, but symbolic. He belonged to you; you saw it in the way he looked at you, utterly lost, hanging on your every breath.

Then, slowly, you begin to move, rising and lowering yourself with controlled rhythm.

"Shit... yer so tight," he pants, hips trying to thrust upward but pinned by your weight. "Grip me so good. I'm made for ye—"

You quicken the pace, slamming yourself down with increasing force, the wet sound of bodies colliding echoing through the shelter.

The pleasure is raw, intense, a fire devouring you—but you want more.

You want him involved; you need him involved.

You take his wrists and firmly guide his hands to your ass, placing them on your tense cheeks. His calloused, trembling fingers instinctively close around the fatty flesh, eagerly answering the unspoken command.

"Yes— yes, like that... good boy..."

He starts moving his hips from below, matching your thrusts. He lifts you slightly when you rise, then pulls you down hard as you sink, deepening every penetration, his cock driving all the way in at a perfect angle that hits that sensitive spot inside you.

The rhythm turns frantic, now driven by him: his hands gripping your ass, fingers digging, leaving red marks.

You grab his blond hair, pulling his head back so your eyes lock, and against all logic, you crush your mouth onto his in a filthy kiss.

Your saliva mixes with his in a wet mess, sticky strands connecting your mouths when you pull back for a moment, only to disappear again when you return to him, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw a bit of blood.

Jimmy whimpers directly into your mouth, weak, desperate sounds vibrating against your tongue —"Mmmh... me love... ahh..."—as you pull his hair harder, twisting it at the roots to arch his neck, pain blending with pleasure in a way that makes him tremble all over, like a starving puppy begging for more contact.

Pleasure builds fast, a crushing wave —you feel your clit grinding against his pubic bone with every thrust, his hands guiding you mercilessly, his cock stretching and filling you with a painfully perfect fullness.

"Yeah... come for me. Let it go—" he pants, his voice cracking as he thrusts faster.

The second orgasm hits you like a storm, more intense than the first, your inner walls spasming around his cock, milking him hard as you cry out softly, thighs shaking around his hips.

But Jimmy can't hold it. His hands clamp brutally onto your ass as his hips jerk upward one last time.

He comes with a strangled cry, hot, abundant waves filling you, making you grimace and drop your gaze to where you're still joined.

"Sorry... m' sorry, me darlin'," he babbles between moans as tears of frustrated release slide down his cheeks. He cups the back of your head and buries his nose in your hair, unwilling to lose contact.

You stay on him for a moment, chin resting on his shoulder, feeling his cock soften slowly inside you and his litany of devoted words whispered into your ear. Warm seed spills down your thighs when he finally slips out, and you close your eyes.