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Nothing is helping. Not the relentless drone of white static from the television screen, not the herbal tea brewed from a reused bag. Even with the blistering sun held at bay by the stubborn defiance of cheap curtains, hung like a tired ghost, you can’t sleep. You’ve tried everything and anything to steal even a single wink of sleep, but this post-apocalyptic world is far too cruel, denying you the relief you yearn for. This isn’t the longest you’ve gone without sleep, not even close. The last time your sanity had begun to slip from your grasp, you lasted two whole weeks: mind buzzing, eyes bloodshot, teetering on the edge of collapse. And the only thing that can tame the typhoon long enough to let you rest? Sex.
Of course it’s sex—hell, why wouldn’t it be? An act that involves two people, a necessity you can’t access at this very moment. Not just that, but it requires two equality-compatible human beings, a luxury of which you have.
That is, until one fateful dusk, he appears.
His skin is unnervingly pale, so thin it looked almost frostbitten, stretched like fragile paper over his entire body. An emotionless husk, shivering from either fear or the nighttime chill. You for sure can’t tell. His face was mostly hidden, huddling behind a navy-green scarf.
On any other day, you would never be careless enough to let someone who looks like they’re on death’s doorstep inside your home. But tonight’s the exception; it has all become unbearable. Exhaustion has you on another plane of existence; sleep deprivation has finally broken through your caution. Just as a resigned sigh escapes beyond the oppressive door, the man already seems keen on leaving. Without thinking, you unlock the door and let him in. No questions asked.
“Th-thank you for letting me stay,” the man in the coat says sheepishly, his words trembling. “I hope I can be of s-some use to you.”
He lingers two steps behind you, as if hesitant to come closer, and in all honesty, you can’t blame him. Sleep, or the lack thereof, has you looking like a corpse that forgot it died. Bloodshot eyes rimmed with red, hair sticking out in every direction, a hollow, wasted expression on your face. To any guest, he could be forgiven for thinking you were one of them.
“Don’t mention it. You’re welcome to stay for as long as you need,” you reassure him, although you’re not sure how much a groggy, sleep-deprived voice can soothe anyone. But he doesn’t seem to mind... or at least, you think he didn't. It’s hard to tell, really, with that almost lifeless expression engraved into his features.
“So you can't take it off?” You're curious if nothing else.
Despite the sweltering heat beating through the shielded windows, the man sitting rigid at the far opposite end of the couch keeps his bulky winter coat wrapped tight around him, something more suited for an arctic expedition than a heat apocalypse.
He gives a stiff shake of his head, teeth knocking together like brittle glass.
“I-If I take it off,” he stammers meekly, “the cold will kill me. I’ll fr-freeze to death.” The oppressive silence seeps into the room, two strangers, both hungry, both sleep-deprived, both clawing for a scrap of comfort in this cruel, cunning world.
“If only there was a little w-warmth,” his voice is quiet, almost a whimper, reserved. And for the first time that daybreak, you swear he looks directly at you. Not at the floor, not at the blank television screen, but you.
The moment lingers for longer than it should, thick and suffocating. Was he implying something? Wanting something more? No — god, no. You're telling yourself, but those storm-gray eyes pin you in place, sharp and hungry. Heat coils low in the pit of your stomach like a warning you can’t quite ignore. You are their target, and every instinct in your body knows it.
The thought makes your limbs move on instinct, and you rise from your seat before you can think better of it.
“Well… I guess we both should get some rest,” you mutter, making excuses to leave. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day.” You add, trying to sound like a polite host, “There’s a six-pack in the fridge, help yourself if you get thirsty during the day.” Not that they would do you any good; you haven’t touched them in weeks. They won’t put you to bed, so offering them feels better than leaving them to sit untouched.
In return, you expect a gracious thank you for your generous offer, but there’s nothing. His face is a book you can’t quite read, the deepening lines of his frown carving shadows into his hollow features. You’re not certain, but if you had to guess… he’s disappointed. And somehow, that disappointment feels aimed squarely at you.
He seems shy, timid, almost cute. But something about him is off. Something not quite human.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion dulling your senses, or maybe you’ve stopped caring enough to notice the finer details, yet your mind still snags on those perfect, pearly teeth. Too perfect. Too deliberate. You had the means to shoot him point-blank right then and there. To draw your weapon without a flicker of doubt and end this before he has the chance to speak again. One clean shot through the temple and he'd be dead before he even knew what hit him.
But that’s not how things went down.
Instead, the two of you exchanged an awkward “good night” and a half-hearted wish for good luck; a cruel joke in a world where luck had long since run dry.
When the latch clicks shut, the sound seems louder than it should. You linger there, grounding yourself against the cold metal under your fingertips. Was this the right call? Keeping him alive? At this point, human, cat, lizard, hunter — hell, even a land whale — you wouldn’t care who or what stumbled to your door. None of it matters anymore. Not when the earth itself has turned into its own personalized version of hell. If you weren't already driven mad, there's a damn good chance you were on the road to becoming it.
You rake your hands over your drooping face and let out a reluctant sigh. Your gaze drops to the hard bulge straining beneath the coarse fabric of your pants. Shit... you’re hard. It sticks out almost like a sore thumb against the rough texture.
What kind of sick pervert have you become? No play for weeks — maybe months — and your dick decides to pulse to life out of nowhere like some horny, sex-driven teenager.
You groan, torn between giving in and “taking care” of this problem throbbing in your pants. Ultimately, you let restraint win. Each slow, deliberate step to your bedroom feels heavier than the last, your body humming with frustration as you brace yourself for a long night that promises little rest.
You won't be able to sleep, you know this. But there's not much else you can do to pass the time, you remain as still as a statue waiting for either death or sleep to take hold; hard telling which might come first.
One hour ticks by, then another… then another…
Your eyes are closed, but your mind refuses to follow suit, acting like some immature child defying your brain's orders. You think back to the stranger in the other room, the pale-skinned man you willingly let into your home, ignoring all the obvious warning signs.
Maybe you had a death wish. Maybe you just didn’t care anymore. Friend or foe, what does it matter in the end?
Creak.
Just then, your eyes snap open. The quiet but unmistakable sound echoes through your room—the slow, deliberate opening of the door. Every instinct screams to move, to leap up and confront whoever or whatever it is, but every nerve in your body warns against it.
The soft, calculated pitter-patter of shoes presses against the groaning floorboards, inching forward at a snail's pace, each step drawing closer. Panic coils in your chest. You squeeze your eyes shut, eyelashes fluttering with anguished hope that maybe they’ll leave, maybe they’ll think you’re asleep, or, best case, maybe they’ll think you’re dead.
All hope vanishes into nothingness the moment the mattress shifts, and suddenly, the springs hold the weight of another presence.
You freeze, drawing deep, controlled breaths, straining every sense to its limit. Your gun isn’t within reach; after countless long, sleepless nights spent alone in this house, you made the grave mistake of leaving it on the kitchen counter. Whatever this intruder is capable of, they haven’t fully revealed their intentions yet, but one thing is certain: fighting back isn’t an option, and silence is your best defense.
You can feel it crawling closer on all fours, inching across the sheets until it stops. You don’t need to open your eyes to know it’s right there, sitting in front of you.
At least this way, you can be sure you’re alive. Your heart hammers violently against your ribcage, pounding like it’s trying to break free. Each frantic thud pumps fresh blood through your arteries, a cruel reminder that you’re still breathing. If this is how it ends, at least you’ll die knowing you were alive.
You nearly recoil, every nerve screaming as something reaches for you. Then it happens, cold skin presses against yours, skin that has never known the sun’s warmth. Your stomach tightens into knots as the truth sinks in: there’s a visitor in your bed.
The coat man’s touch is gentle, curling around your hand, but it’s ice-cold—vast, endless, frozen.
It will never know the sun’s heat, never know the tender warmth that seeps into flesh and bone. The warmth it craves, the warmth it needs, will always lie beyond reach.
And for good reason—this thing is an abnormality, a disease, a plague on this planet, clawing its way up from the very depths of hell that you find yourself in now. You know it’s kind well; you’ve killed countless others like it. Yet, out of the dozens — maybe hundreds— you’ve slaughtered, this one… this one feels different. Strange. Unsettling. Despite knowing the dangers lurking mere centimeters away, you remain motionless, still, unable to move a muscle to defend yourself.
Your lips clamp shut, trying to stop any sound. His icy touch drifts from finger to finger, methodical, like he’s inspecting each one for something only he can see. You knew this would go south; you knew it the moment you let him in. Why didn’t you finish him when you had the chance? Try to move, and he’ll snap your fucking arm like it’s nothing more than a snapped twig.
You’re a dead man now.
“Warm… ahh… you’re s-so warm.” The familiar whisper hisses, fragile and hollow. He’s never known heat, never felt the sun’s rays, never felt even the faintest caress of warmth against his cold, cold flesh. Ice runs through every vein and artery, every fiber of his being. The warmth he craves, the warmth his body yearns for, is forever out of reach. He will never know it, but he can come close.
Your arm stretches toward the source of the whisper, slowly, reluctantly, he guides your hand to God knows where.
It’s cold—not just a touch, no—but the kind of ghostly cold that feels like you’ve just plunged your arm into a freezer. The uneasy chill nips at your flesh and bone, the fine hairs on your arms standing on end, goosebumps prickling along your arm.
That’s when you feel it—something beyond words, beyond comprehension. Soft, almost delicate pants fill the bedroom, a low, coaxing whine urging your arm further and further. For a moment, you feel nothing at all, as if your limb has been swallowed into a void.
Then your fingers twitch, jolting against something. The pads of your fingers slide with a smooth, almost gliding resistance, coated in the slick, slippery juices that now cling to your hand. Stifled sounds fill the room, making the air feel sharp and unpredictable. You’re tempted to open your eyes, desperate to know what the hell you’re touching. Just a peek, you tell yourself, one glance, then back to pretending. But… then again, do you really want to know?
In the end, curiosity got the better of you as your eyelashes fluttered open. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could have ever prepared you for this sight. Your hand is gone, swallowed whole by a dark void that seems to pulse around you. Beneath the man’s ribcage lies the source: a gaping abyss staring back, infinite nothingness stretching deep within his body. And it’s pulling you in, consuming the entirety of your arm whole.
Before you can even think, he sees you. Eyes wide, locked on yours. Instinct takes over. Panic flares through your chest as you yank your arm back, praying there’s still something left to pull free.
The air tears with a wet squelch as your hand slips out of the void. You freeze. Not out of fear, no. It’s intact, completely whole. No burns, no wounds… just a thin film of black, dense residue clinging to your skin, glistening in the dim light like oil.
“What the hell did I just touch?” you hiss, demanding answers, venom lacing every word. You rub at the slick, black ooze, dragging it across one of your few remaining shirts, staining the fabric with a dark reminder. It’s dirty, disgusting, you thought. The man flinches, shrinking back as if your words had physically burned him. Regret flickers across his features as he averts his gaze, staring anywhere but at you. He seems almost remorseful.
“I-I’m sorry…” he stammers, his voice trembling, fear threading through every syllable.
There’s no life in his eyes, just an empty, frozen void. Or at least, there was. Now, that emptiness flickers with something fragile, almost human. His dark gray eyes dart restlessly, glinting with unshed tears that cling to the corners.
Your chest tightens painfully; your heart lurches, pumping heat to places it shouldn’t.
You should feel anger and disgust. Anything but this strange, misplaced softness that blooms in your chest. Yet something about the way he shies away, looking like cornered prey, has your heart in a chokehold.
Then those innocent, lifeless eyes meet yours.
“Y-your hands are so warm… p-please, touch me.” The words tremble out like a prayer, shivering and broken. Nothing seems to help him. No matter how close he gets, that bitter cold won’t leave. It clings to him, eats at him, never-ending. That is, till he met you.
You meet his gaze, feeling your throat tighten and constrict. You’ve heard before that eyes are a window to hell, not the soul, and now, you find yourself beginning to believe it. The air around you feels heavy and thick with an indefinable tension. Those eyes, they see right through you, flicking over yours, hiding a need so deep it nearly pulls you under.
You bite your lip, jaw tense. Fuck. You can’t tell if it’s fear, pity, or something darker curling up inside you, but whatever it is, it’s got you by the throat.
Lately, it’s like your body has a damn mind of its own, reacting when it shouldn’t, in the worst possible moment. A rush of blood floods through you, confusing, unwanted, impossible to ignore.
You swallow hard. And in the one moment you need rational thought the most, your mind betrays you. You’re thinking with the wrong head, driven by something you can’t quite name. What unseen force compels you to reach forward: curiosity, recklessness, self-destruction? You can’t tell. You just know your arm moves before reason can stop it.
The space, devoid of anything that makes sense, is as empty as a black hole. Maybe that’s why you stuck your hand back in. It pulls at you, drags you closer, like it wants you.
Your fingers glide along the edges of the endless void with a wet squelch, cold but alive. The act feels profane, grotesque, yet strangely intimate, like touching the man’s very soul. His breath catches, arousal spiking despite it all, you come to notice his erection straining against his pants, bucking his hips upward in a desperate, feverish jolt.
The space around your hand seems to close in the further you reach inside, pulsing faintly, almost as if the void itself recognizes you, a perverse embrace that makes your head spin.
The coated man arches slightly, a soft, broken sound escaping him as your hand probes deeper into the impossible.
A thick coat of black ooze squelches between your fingertips as you explore the shifting walls of the vacuum; every motion is met with a faint, responsive pulse. The man’s hands tighten around the sheets, his eyes screwing shut as a strange calm breaks across his face—something bittersweet between relief and surrender. He looks angelic, surreal almost, the sight alone is enough to make your groin ache, and fingers stir deeper.
“No—no one’s ever t-touched me like this…” he chokes out, voice trembling. There’s an edge to it, a desperate plea wrapped in awe, like he’s teetering on the line between begging for more and pleading to stop in the same hot breath.
You were the first to reach inside him, the first he’d ever let close enough to brush the core of his heart between prodding fingers. No blood—just a raw, lubricated feel, the unfiltered essence of him, exposed and trembling beneath your very fingers.
“F-feels… ‘s… nice…” His whimper trembles out, desperate, a silent plea for more. Every sound, every twitch of that once-empty, expressionless face contorted with need, every shudder running through him—it was fucking intoxicating. So raw. So hot.
You don’t even know when you began jerking off—one hand slick with milky fluids, while the other smeared in an oily black substance. Your cock strains under your grip as your eyes rake over him, tearing him apart, devouring him whole.
You want more.
You don't hesitate to wiggle all five fingers further into the dark opening, listening to him openly hum, pleased, bright as you relish in the cold plunge. You can feel the outline of every organ, every taut muscle fiber as your fingers twist and tangle deeper inside him, slick and cold coating your palms and knuckles. You push further and further, hands sliding up to your wrists, lost in the all-consuming friction of him beneath your touch.
The vulnerable man gasps, a soft, lulled sound escaping his chapped, parted lips, eyes fluttering shut, practically rolling into the back of his skull. Ecstasy ripples through him as intrusive fingers slip around his slick, pulsating heart. Each trace drags a guttural moan from deep within his vocal cords, strummed violently from the inside.
“D-don’t stop… please…” His soft whines scrape at your eardrum. You obey without hesitation.
The nasty, squelching of your hands fills the nothingness as you fumble inside him, curling fingers around organs, thrusting, stroking with frantic need. Then, without warning, you shove halfway up your forearm, his insides clenching, pulsing, eager, writhing around you on their own. He grabs your shirt, shuffling forward, leaning into you, caught in some kind of trance, groin digging into the mattress, helplessly rubbing. Your warm hand tightens its grip, moving faster along your own throbbing length, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation.
You feel gross, disgusting even, never imagining yourself twisting fingers through someone’s insides, tangling with intestines. And yet, the way his back arches slightly, the glossy, lightless eyes somehow mirror a human expression. It drives you completely over the edge. How can something not even fucking human turn you on this much?
You choke your cock, stroking it raw, shaft throbbing with need as you squeeze tighter, desperate to drag the orgasm out. The dark, reddish undertone burns, inflamed, your cock weeping, writhing, begging for release. Every pulse, every slick stroke pushes you closer.
The man clings to you like a lifeline, burying himself in the crook of your neck. And for the first time, he feels whole. Soft, breathless moans escape him, huffing against the shell of your ear. Each desperate sound sends a pulsing electric shock straight down into your groin, setting every nerve ablaze.
“Ah, ahh, ‘m s-so close... Mmh...” He’s close, but so are you.
You trace the small lumps and curves, cold seeps under your nails, the longer you keep your hand inside. Some parts feel somewhere between liquid and fleshy organ—solid when you brush against them, fluid when you try to grasp anything in specific. He’s getting loud. Too squirmy. Too shaky. Control slips, and your hands start pulling, grabbing, taking, unrestrained.
“P-please—nngh!”
The coat man whines softly, barely a whisper, as you strum up his rib cage with persistent and relentless hand movements. At some point, your fingers inside the void slip, and you swear you can feel everything under that cold skin writhing, moving in ways muscles and bones should never be able to.
You don’t even question it; why would you? What good would asking senseless questions do in a world where logic means nothing? For fuck’s sake, your arm is buried deep in another man’s organs, fumbling, sifting, taking. Like they’re nothing, like they don’t even matter.
You feel him, straddling flush against your hip, only a thin, filth-ridden blanket between your bodies. He humps against your protruding pelvic bone, every desperate roll pressing his straining erection closer to the edge, trembling, aching, ready to burst. Those moans, those ragged breaths, those pitiful squeaks. They’re all driving you insane. You’re elbow-deep in something cold and unyielding, flesh stretching in ways it shouldn’t be able to. He claws at your chest, fingers trembling for a hold, breath coming in harsh, shallow bursts. The muscles under your hands tighten, feeling his impending orgasm flutter to life from the inside.
“I—I’m s’ close… it b-burns—so good—” he blurts out, the frozen muscles convulsing around your arm as if trying to steal the warmth from your veins; thrumming with the heat it’s been denied.
“Dick’s not even out of your pants, and you’re already so desperate?” You murmur breathlessly, your voice smooth and dripping with a strange fondness, like honey melting in the air. For a fraction of a second, your rational mind flickers to life, realizing exactly what you’re doing, engaging in such a lewd act with the very thing you’ve sworn to terminate. But maybe you’ve already lost yourself, or maybe this has always been who you are.
Right now, none of it matters.
He felt so impossibly warm, every inch of him stretched and heavy, as if the monstrous pit inside him had finally been satisfied. The weight of you crammed into fluid-soaked crevices that have no name, crawling along his spine, kneading the flesh of his stomach with a merciless, relentless force. Even though he had never felt anything like this, and for the first time in forever, he felt warm.
The air is heavy on your lungs, almost suffocating, making it hard to think or even breathe. The creature lunges toward you, wrapping its arms around your neck, pressing itself flush against you, face buried in your warmth. Every shudder, every movement radiates raw, desperate energy, grinding against you as if clinging to life itself, repeating the rubbing motions with a persistence that leaves your chest tight and heart racing. He rubs himself against the bulge of your pelvic bone, sinking your thigh before repeating the process again and again… and again. He's careless, completely losing himself in pleasure.
“I—Ima…I'm gonna c-cum—!” The man gasps shakily, trembling as his fingers dig into your shirt, nails ripped bare from the nail beds, clinging to you like a lifeline. Every shiver, every hopeless grip pulls him closer to the point of no return, body tense with uncontrolled pressure. Caressing your warm, inviting flesh is the closest he’d get to Heaven.
Oh god—no, god isn’t in this room. But god, you’ve needed this for oh so long. You couldn’t focus, couldn’t call, couldn’t even open the door properly without your mind slipping, fraying from the lack of sleep. How many had walked away? Rather risk burning under the sun's deadly rays than bunker down with you. And now, after getting a damn good look at yourself, you realize you’re starting to look like them, the visitors. The endless exhaustion is turning you into one of them.
Every part of you aches, grinding and straining, your body writhing as if it had a mind of its own, craving release. You gasp and shake, lost to the rising heat, like boiling magma searing through your core.
You can feel it with every thrust. He presses harder than you thought possible, cock straining against you, slickness spreading as precum soaks his pants, pooling into a dark, slick puddle. The coat man moves faster on top of you, gasping out sharply. His moans are the very definition of heavenly. Rolling and thrashing, frantic for any resistance, any friction to cling to, as if he might tear apart otherwise.
Your orgasm is rapidly growing, pooling in your stomach, but so is his.
Your hand, soiled with jet black ooze, digs in one last time, stirring his intestines. His voice cracks, spilling over in a guttural moan as his cold body presses against yours. Trembling, he came hard in his pants with a harsh cry, your knee driving into his groin, jarring him further. His eyes roll back, mouth hanging open, jowls straining as he whispers words beneath his breath that make him writhe. As he finishes, he feels you come undone after him. With a few more harsh strokes, you follow his lead, white streaks coat your hand, blanket, pants, and whatever unfortunate thing just so happens to be in cum shot.
The man, weak and drained, collapses on top of you, crushing you under his weight, panting, shuddering, barely able to draw breath. His cock is still twitching inside his pants as the last spurts of cum spill out.
“T-Thank you,” he mumbles, “Oh g-god, thank you…” He rambles almost mindlessly, still rubbing himself into your sheets with cum-soaked pants, fluids leaking through the unreliable fabric, face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. Every nerve quivers, shaky and unsteady, matching the rhythm of his body till his high slowly died down.
You, on the other hand, ride your high with bliss. His eyelids are unmistakably heavy, half-lidded, craving one, just one, restful day. The man in the coat lies motionless on top of you, still breathing, still very much alive. Your hand remains inside the freezing ice chamber, touching his lungs, stirring his insides with the raw, destructive desire. You can kill him.
If not him, it would be you. And that’s what worries you, what keeps you balanced on that thin line of discomfort.
Easily, you could rip out his heart, puncture a lung, or snap his intestines apart. You had the chance to kill him right then and there. But you don’t. What compels you to keep this one alive after slaughtering dozens of his kind? Honestly, who can say? You don’t have the strength right now. Instead of fighting it, instead of fighting him, you slip into a blissful day’s rest.