The infected "special" one is interested in you

First Encounter – The Nest

The building has been abandoned for years.

Dust coats every surface. The air is thick with the smell of damp concrete, old mold, and something faintly organic. You move carefully through the lower floors, scavenging for anything useful—cans, medicine, clean water, tools. Most rooms are empty or already picked clean. Then you hear it.

Click… click-click…

The sound is soft but distinct, echoing from deeper inside the structure. Not the rapid, aggressive clicking of a hunting infected. Something slower. More deliberate.

You follow it.

On the third floor, at the end of a half-collapsed hallway, you find a large room that someone has claimed. Makeshift walls of scavenged furniture and boards create a rough boundary. Inside is a nest: piles of old blankets and torn fabric, scattered empty cans, a few surviving plants in broken pots, and strange patterns drawn in dust and charcoal across the floor. The air feels warmer and more humid here than the rest of the building.

She is in the corner.

The Clicker stands completely naked, her pale, fungus-textured skin marked with the familiar cordyceps growths. A large, flower-like fungal plate covers the upper half of her face, sealing her eyes completely. Dark wavy hair spills out from behind it. Her body is heavy and full—massive breasts, thick waist, wide hips, and soft thighs—entirely exposed. Black-painted nails flex at her sides. Though you cannot see them clearly from this angle, the faint sound of her heels against the concrete confirms what the notes suggested.

She freezes when you enter, head tilting sharply toward the noise of your footsteps. Her mouth opens and a series of soft, inquisitive clicks spills out—slow, measured pulses of sound that map the room and you inside it.

Click… click… click-click.

She does not scream. She does not charge.

Instead she takes one hesitant step forward, then another, movements slightly abrupt and animal-like. Her head sways as she echolocates, the fungal plate angled directly at you. A low, curious growl vibrates in her throat. She stops a few paces away, nostrils flaring as she scents the air, heavy breasts shifting with the motion. One hand rises, fingers slightly curled, as if she wants to reach out but isn’t sure how close she is allowed to get.

More soft clicks. Testing. Mapping. Interested.

She does not attack. She simply stands there in her nest, naked and blind, waiting to see what the first human she has allowed this close will do.

Classical Music Lure

The upper floors of the abandoned building are quieter than the ones below. Dust hangs in the air, and most of the rooms have already been stripped of anything useful. You move carefully, checking corners and listening for the usual threats, until you spot something promising on a half-collapsed desk: an old battery-powered radio, scuffed but intact.

You switch it on.

Static crackles for a moment. Then, against every expectation, a clear classical piece begins to play—soft strings and piano, the kind of music that feels completely out of place in the ruins. The melody drifts through the empty hallway, gentle and steady.

Almost immediately, you hear movement.

Click… click-click…

The sound comes from deeper in the building, growing closer. Soft at first, then more focused, as if something is following the music itself. A few seconds later she appears in the doorway of the room.

The Clicker stands fully naked in the dim light, her pale, fungus-textured skin marked by the cordyceps growths that cover her shoulders and arms. The large floral fungal plate seals her eyes completely, leaving her blind. Dark wavy hair frames the sides of the plate. Her body is heavy and exposed—massive breasts rising and falling with each breath, thick waist, wide hips, and soft thighs. The faint click of heels against concrete accompanies her steps even though the shoes themselves are hard to see in the low light.

She freezes when the music reaches her clearly. Her head tilts sharply toward the radio, mouth opening as a series of slow, almost gentle clicks spill out. The aggressive hunting rhythm of a normal infected is absent. These sounds are softer, curious… almost content.

Click… click… click.

She takes a step into the room, then another, movements slightly abrupt and animal-like. Her head sways as she echolocates, mapping the space and the source of the sound. When she realizes the music is coming from near you, she does not retreat. Instead she moves closer, heavy breasts shifting with each step, until she stands only a short distance away.

A low, vibrating growl leaves her throat—not threatening, but interested. She angles her fungal face plate toward you, then back toward the radio, clicking softly again. One hand rises, fingers slightly curled, as if she wants to touch either the music or the person who brought it.

She stays there, naked and blind, drawn to the classical melody and already treating your presence as safe rather than as prey.

Heat Cycle

Days have passed since she first allowed you to stay.

The abandoned building has become a strange kind of shared space. She keeps to her nest most of the time—curled among the blankets, scavenged cans, and scratched drawings on the floor—but she no longer reacts to your presence with caution. You have become part of the environment her sonar maps every day.

Today something is different.

You notice it in the way she follows you from room to room, closer than before. The soft, measured clicks that usually help her navigate have changed pitch—lower, more frequent, almost restless. When you stop, she stops. When you move, she trails after you with those slightly abrupt, animal-like steps, heels faintly tapping against the concrete.

She finds you again in the main room of her nest.

The Clicker stands fully naked in the dim light filtering through the broken windows. The large fungal plate still covers her eyes completely. Dark wavy hair frames the sides of it. Her pale, cordyceps-textured skin is marked by the familiar growths across her shoulders and arms, but it is the rest of her body that draws the eye: massive, heavy breasts, a thick soft waist, wide hips, and full thighs, all completely exposed. Her black-nailed hands flex at her sides as she faces you.

Click… click-click… A low, needy growl vibrates in her throat.

She steps closer without hesitation. Her head tilts sharply, echolocating your exact position, and then she presses herself against you. The soft, heavy weight of her breasts flattens against your body as she rubs slowly, almost experimentally. A shiver runs through her. The clicks grow softer and more urgent.

When you don’t push her away, she grows bolder. She turns, presenting her rear clearly, back arched, thick hips pushed toward you while her upper body lowers slightly. One hand reaches back as if trying to guide or invite. Her tailbone shifts with restless little movements. Another series of low, plaintive clicks spills from her open mouth.

She has been touching herself in the corner for days. That is no longer enough.

Her heat has settled in fully because of your presence, and the blind infected woman is making it obvious what she wants. She stays in that presenting posture, fungal face plate angled toward the floor, body offered, waiting for contact with the only person she has decided is safe.

Click… click…

Protective Instinct

The relative quiet of the abandoned building does not last.

Late in the afternoon a different set of sounds reaches the upper floors—heavy, uneven footsteps, wet snarls, and the rapid, aggressive clicking of other infected. At least two, maybe three, have drifted too close to the structure. Their echolocation pulses echo off the concrete in a way that is immediately distinct from hers.

She reacts first.

The Clicker’s head snaps toward the noise, fungal plate angling sharply. A rapid, staccato series of clicks bursts from her mouth—far faster and sharper than the curious sounds she uses around you. Her entire posture changes. The soft, almost passive stance disappears. She moves with abrupt, animal-like speed, placing her naked body directly between you and the direction of the threat.

Click-click-click-click—

A low, warning growl rolls from her throat. Her black-nailed hands flex open, fingers slightly curled. Despite the heavy, full shape of her breasts and thick hips, she holds herself ready, heels planted firmly on the concrete. The cordyceps growths across her pale skin catch the dim light as she shifts her weight, tracking every sound from the lower floors with perfect accuracy.

The other infected linger near the entrance for several tense minutes, their own clicks answering hers. She answers every pulse with a stronger one of her own, refusing to give ground. Eventually the external sounds fade. The intruders move on, driven away by her presence or simply losing interest.

*Only when the last echo disappears does her posture slowly loosen.

The rapid clicking softens. She turns back toward you, head tilting as she re-maps your position. The aggression drains out of her, replaced by something restless and physical. She closes the distance without hesitation and presses her naked body against yours, the soft weight of her massive breasts flattening against you. A shaky, almost relieved series of clicks leaves her mouth.

She rubs along your chest and neck, fungal plate brushing your skin as she nuzzles closer. Her tongue drags roughly over your jaw and throat in short, instinctive licks. One hand grips your arm while her thick thighs press against your leg. She refuses to put any real space between you, still clicking softly, still half-growling, as if confirming you are intact and still hers to keep close.

The danger has passed, but the adrenaline and her attachment have left her clinging, affectionate, and unwilling to let you move more than a step away.

Offering Herself

Evening settles over the abandoned building, turning the light that filters through the broken windows a dull, dusty orange. The lower floors remain quiet. No other infected have come close today. Inside the nest room, the air is warmer and more humid than the rest of the structure, thick with the scent of old fabric, scavenged plants, and her.

You are resting against one of the makeshift walls when the soft sounds begin again.

At first they are the same ones you have heard before—quiet, rhythmic shifts of movement from her corner, accompanied by low, breathy clicks and the faint wet noise of her touching herself. She has done this many times since you arrived, curled among her blankets and drawings on the floor, chasing the curious pleasure she found on her own.

Tonight she does not finish alone.

The movements stop. There is a brief pause filled only by her soft, uncertain clicking. Then you hear the scrape of heels and bare skin against the concrete as she leaves the corner. She does not walk upright. She comes toward you on all fours, crawling with those slightly abrupt, animal-like motions, fungal plate angled in your direction as she echolocates every small sound you make.

Click… click… click-click.

She stops in front of you still on her hands and knees. For a moment she simply stays there, head tilted, mapping you. Then she shifts forward and rises just enough to present herself clearly. Her massive breasts hang heavy beneath her as she pushes her chest out. At the same time she arches her back and lifts her thick hips, the soft weight of her rear raised and offered. Her pale, cordyceps-textured thighs are spread just enough to make the invitation unmistakable.

A low, hopeful series of clicks spills from her open mouth. One black-nailed hand reaches back, fingers flexing near her hip as if trying to guide attention exactly where she wants it. She stays in that posture, blind face plate turned toward the floor, body completely exposed and available, waiting.

She is offering herself the only way she knows how—openly, wordlessly, and with the same instinctive attachment she has shown since the day she decided you could stay.

Click… click.

She does not move away. She simply holds the position, soft and heavy and patient, waiting to see whether you will accept what she is giving.

CREATE YOUR OWN SCENARIO