Agh, I promised Sisi an update as soon as my exams finished. Which was Wednesday. It is now 2am on Saturday morning. I should really be in bed, or I won't be up in time for the bus tomorrow.
But y'know, surely a little lateness is excusable? This fic is competing with various other things, including post-exam celebrations (and the end of my voluntary teetotalism- YAY!), food, giving blood (I managed to squeeze out a pint in six minutes today. It was quite weird), shopping for various things to change my appearance with, a new goldmine of original ideas, and the other kind of femslash that dominates my life :-D
But no, in all honesty, sorry it wasn't up by Wednesday. I hope the chapter itself makes up for it.
This is my writer's choice prompt, for which I chose 'stale'. Largely because it fits in with the narrative I'm trying to write. It's quite odd that this one seemed more difficult to write than the other prompts so far. Maybe it's because I'm a bit knackered.
Warnings: sexual imagery and a bit of language. Nothing too strong.
Hope you enjoy.
Stalemate
The nights are hotter now. And lighter, but Ebola keeps the blinds drawn. Even in the shade, boxed in between four walls, she is stifled, and the sweat dries in a sticky layer over her too-pink skin.
She is lying, still, on the bed, wearing only her babydoll nightie. Black chiffon; almost see-through. Her hair is loose and damp with sweat, weighing her head down into the pillow.
A light, tickling touch runs across her abdomen, and she shivers involuntarily.
"I know what you want," Anthrax teases. "You're not getting it."
Ebola laughs dryly. "Yes I am."
"No you're not," Anthrax maintains, fingers still playing through the thin black ribbon between Ebola's breasts.
She is. She always does. The game has become as familiar as any other, with a set game-plan, and rules and a predetermined outcome where everybody wins. Anthrax will initiate, though she pretends to be reluctant; Ebola will cajole her, assertively, but never aggressively; then, Ebola will give one final, unquestionable word, and Anthrax will obey. Ebola will submit, Anthrax will drink, and they will fuck until the light is gone. Like they do. Every night.
It's only the sharp punch of Anthrax's fangs piercing the thin skin of her neck, the nimble expertise of the fingers probing every nerve ending, the soft lap of the gently suckling tongue, that keeps her screaming.
The fangs that Ebola gave her; the fingers that Ebola taught to touch; the tongue that Ebola first baptised with the flow of human blood.
It's all a pure gut reaction to the electric waves and impulses that run through her body, stimulated by physicality alone.
Except for one moment, just before Anthrax pulls out, where she sees an image, a beautiful fantasy; her own body, caught in a twisted tangle of black belts.