It’s cold, blistering against your cheeks and skin, nipping at you like vultures to a corpse. Earth has been that way for a while, as human as vultures are, and it’s forced you to be faced with how much beauty there is in pain, even your own as you heave against your knees.
It’s hard to know where you are, barricaded in a building foreign to you, with everyone dressed as foreign beasts. They aren’t foreign though, they shouldn’t be since the outbreak has taken time with it, and it’s made your skin rot with dirt from how long it’s been since you’ve felt safe.
You don’t know how long it’s been honestly, how long you’ve been alone, how long you’ve felt your family’s touch, how long you’ve seen another being that breathes without the poison in their lungs.
You move to stand form your heaving state, one hand braced on your ribs whilst the other holds your gun, a catch you found under a dead person’s fingertips. Their death was the most mercy you’ve ever felt from a cold body. If you were dead, it’d be a mercy, at least you wouldn’t be a…
You find some things, the place is dark, but not horribly so, there’s still enough light from fogged windows to give you an idea of what was here. There’s carpeting, warm even against your frosty boots, and there’s furniture scattered, not tattered as it lays. You don’t know whose home this is, but you know they lived perfectly here. You could picture yourself here, staying- lingering like mold under caulk. You set down your gun on the couch, the living room -or maybe guest room, lounge area because it’s that spacious, you’re not sure- and move to pick up some of the furniture. The television is in front, expansive and dug into the wall, and the coffee table fits perfectly between the two, much space left as you move to grab the chairs on the side, both topped laying on their side like a couple lived here. You’d like it to be a couple, not a child and their parent. You’d like for it to be two people still capable of culpability. Capable of survival.
It’s not different, if you think more of it, the past and this present. It was still as monstruous, you were just unable to see, but you’ve heard of it, you know it in your body how this is just mold coming to ahead. You’re just mold as you brush the dust off of the table, move to pick up the vase with plastic red roses. It’s romantic, and you don’t dare do anything more as you survey the place. You only picked up furniture, but it’s enough to keep this moment everlasting, to make this moment your life for a little while longer.
Until something sounds.
You’re not sure what it is, but there’s a humming, a creak, a beeping. Something that makes you heart stutter, not to life, but tumbling into fear, or dropping like you swear someone must’ve you because this cannot be your life. You move with quiet feet, thanking the carpet for not only the fantasy of what your life could’ve been, the warmth of that fantasy, but the ability to hide your fear, your inexperience in the walls that never were yours.
You’re shaking, one hand holding the glass vase whilst the other plucks the two roses out of the container. Their flesh isn’t that tough, it can’t be because they’re dying as they breathe. The rose ends should do some damage, mimicked thorns poking at your tense palms.
It’s silent, not so much so, but more than before. There’s no hint of an entry. You can pretend- you can go back to the table and put the flowers back; it’d be a nice way to die, even if it’s violent, even if the creatures lick at your last heartbeats and you never see your home the way your mother conceited it for you. You almost let the image coat you into oblivion, before you see it- hear it, maybe even feel the handle twist as your heart jumps onto your tongue, a yelp silenced for the screak of the door. You don’t know if it creaked for you, but you know a house like this shouldn’t never screaked.
The vase comes down on a surprised face, an arm saving the woman covered in a black jacket, and the flowers fall from you because she is not dead. She’s not breathing the dead, instead she’s breathing, huffing cold air like yourself. She’s faster than you, much faster than you because she slams you against the wall you hid against, her features pinkened with cold yet not stiff as they scrunch into a scowl. You’re both still for a moment, and her scowl fades to something, something softer maybe, or something liked with surprised, realization confronting her like it did you. It’s softer on her though, and you really- really shouldn’t have taken her scowl at face value, the softening hint to her features, but you’re just so cold, and this is the first person you’ve seen in so long.
Her gun hits the floor with your sudden desire to hurt, to take back what control you don’t have. You get her to hit against the coffee table, the impact enough to slam the both of you into huffs of air. It makes her hair swoop beside her, a braid of golden that you admire beside her eyes of blue. Your hands shake, from cold or adrenaline, you’re not sure, but you do know that you shake against her thick wrists, and you shake even more as you realize you’re no true match for her. If she struggles- when she does, you’re in hot water, something that’s never sounded worse in frosty temperatures.
Your gun is a glit memory just like her hair, and you make the horrid, rash mistake as you always have, looking to the prize without money. You don't know how much ammo is in it- if it has any or has frozen over since the last time you had to use it. All you know, is that she can comprehend your gaze that’s torn from hers for the real prize in this word. A weapon to kill, that’s supposed to be bloodied.
The moment you move, she’s quicker, shoving you and finding the grip of your gun as you tumble to the wall of the television. You could’ve been on the television, like an actor if you just… if you just weren’t born here. This might be a merciful way to die though, more than that coward you found with his own blood on the time. This is more merciful; more gallant than some bite to your neck or barrel to your temple. You keep your hands in her view as she now stands, roughed up, over you. It might be the adrenaline, but it’s like you never threw her down to the table- you don’t know how you did that, especially as she stands, buff yet wrapped in warm clothes.
You don’t know why you weren’t floored sooner. She huffs, firm, paced voiced, “Are you alone?” There’s a hint of humor that finds you, panicked as you weigh your head with a nervous chuckle. It’s nerves, you realize, because you can actually die now. You don’t want to die. “Th-that’s a really hard question to answer.” “Well, try,” she spits, not even missing a beat, both hand cupping the handgun that probably doesn’t have that stranger’s brains anymore, maybe doesn’t even remember them as your hands found it, wished the memory of the act away the way your mother’s warm hand is wiped form your own memory. Warm as in firm. Warm as in gentle. Warm as in a God.
“My- my mom left me- A long time ago. She- she went to get something, or just left, I’m not sure, but she hasn’t been back in the longest time, and… and I’ve been alone for the longest time.” There’s a quiver to your lip, like the wilt of the flowers that cannot compete with the plastic ones inside, dropped and folded in the haste of your actions. “Please, I’m just- I’ll leave if that’s what you want, I only needed shelter from the storm.” Your shaking, maybe violently, but you’re not sure how you seem, only that this time it’s not the cold that you shake from, instead it’s her. She’s not scary, but strong, strong as she lowers the gun- doesn’t offer it back but lowers it and removes her beanie with a sigh. A breath of almost relief, you think, as she nods her head, tongue darting to wet her lower one.
“I’m here for that too- The hiding form the storm part… Sorry to hear about your mother,” she offers awkwardly. You blink the thankful surprise form your features, hands lowering slowly and cramping in awkward placement. “Not your fault, um, can I have my gun back?” She looks to it, staring for a moment before she targets hers near the door. She scrunches her lips, her hand moving to check the bullets. She empties them in front of you, taking them into her pocket as she gifts it to you, holding it out with one hand. You grab the offer, a gesture of no malice as she sniffs form the cold. “Sorry, I just…” You shake your head. “No, ‘s fine. We can just get through the storm together. I… I’ll trust you for this.” She nods her head slowly, eyes still on yours.
You let your gaze leave first, a clear of your throat making her move to grasp her gun, to make the atmosphere stir the awkwardness around, the warmth movement can offer with it. You move to stand, pocketing your gun once you’ve adjusted your coat around you, and moving to the roses on the floor. She watches; you can feel her as you stand with both flowers. It’s a simple offer, but one you hope makes her trust you as you offer it like your bullet-less gun from her. “To make up for breaking your back.” She muses a smile, shaking her head. “I’m not old; my back’s not broken.”
“Well, if you’re not old, then what’s your name.” You fidget with the plastic stem in your hand, and when she looks almost sheepish, most likely hesitant for security wise, you offer your name with a hand. More than the rose, she grips your hand and offers her own name, “Abby.” You nod your head, the warmth of her glowed hand in your bare one electric. “Nice to meet you, Abby.” “You too.”
It happens again, her eyes on yours for a prolonged time. You move away first again, almost sheepish, though you tack it to your nerves, like her and her security, not looking into her blues are your own security. “Have you explored much?” Your lips part to answer her, eyes targeting the flower in your hand. “I didn’t find much. These people were rich though, that’s for sure.” She hums in approbation, looking past to the cabinets far behind the couch and mess of the table. There’s a pool table to the left; on the door you were just beside, and she just entered. “Rich people do have a great stash though.” Your brows furrow. “Stash?” Her gun is gone, pocketed like yours as she ruffles through the stretch of cabinets. She pulls out a bottle, showcasing the others inside as she holds the window to it open. “Stash of liquor.” You huff inn amusement, shaky against your frost-bitten lungs. You wonder if this is how they feel when they inhaled the disease.
You think it’s poetic and then realize it’s only poetic because of how deadly, painful it is. “You drink?” She’s opening it, tapping into the sealed lid with her blunt fingers, ripping at the plastic covering and twisting at the metal top. “If it’ll make me warmer,” you respond, moving over to her with your rose in one hand. Hers lays in the cabinet, something you replicate when the cap is torn off, offering you the first sip. “Are you cold?” You respond after your wince from the old, bitter beverage. It’ll definitely make you more of something. You weigh your head, offering the spout to her lips. She takes the glass, as you respond, taking a sip for herself, “Nothing I’m not used to.” You breathe a huff of cold air, moving to take off your gloves to warm them up with your breath.
You look up to her as you finish, her glug of beverage leaving a chuckle for your humor, this time you feel humor not in nerves, but in familiarity. Maybe in another time, somewhere else, you were something like this, maybe even in this room. “You must have a high tolerance-” She kisses you, but the bottle stays in her grasp, one hand on your cheek to feel the warmth of you. You wonder if she thinks you’re soft at all, even overtop the glove, hopefully supple at least. You part form her for a breath, lips tingling with the strong taste of her liquor-soaked petals. She curses, face scrunching in contrition, “shit I’m- I’m sorry, I don’t-” You kiss her back, both hands finding her cheeks, bitten with winter and somehow warm with pink, so warm your fingers dip into the soft flesh of her cheek, prominent cheek bones bare on your own padded fingers. She lets you kiss her, maybe encroaching a bit too into it as the bottle slips and knocks onto the floor.
She breathes life into you, as you kiss her, because now you can hear, you can’t just remember what happens around you, but you can experience thanks to this other human. She grips your waist as your lips part with hers, deepening with warm huffs against your own frozen cheeks. She’s soft, sinfully so- with a slippery tongue that slips into you, backs you up into the cupboard as she digs her being into you, merging as if she feels the same, as if you also breathe life into her, some type needed in this room that’s only taking the passing time.
She splatters kisses from your lips warmly, just as paint would splatter shockingly against your skin. You don't know how long it's been, if you've only ever had fever dreams rather than the real thing, but you do know that this stranger is as colorful and beguiling as paint is to you in this room.
Her hair is in your grasp, your touch smoothing over her braid to her neck, your other grazing the wet chill of her jacket. You can feel her, her bulging muscles flex, her neck moves deeper against you, the fanning of kisses across your neck. She parts for a moment, hands still on your waist as she looks to your eyes. “Can I take this off?”
“Take as much as you want,” you breathe, leaning to kiss her again as her hands move to slip your winter jacket off. The cold air hits you, but it's a nip of a notion considering how hot her lips are, how hot they lip against your being and ignite more than a winter fire inside of you.
She guides you to lean against the cabinet, hands now on your hips, lips moving to tackle your bare shoulders like freckles of snowflakes. You grind against air, your pants too tight against your core. You feel her smirk against your beating skin, hot from her actions, from her.
Her thick fingers quickly find your pants, unbuckling them with a certain practice as she guides you to groove out of them, shimmying your hips until they land to your boots.
You kick them off, lengthening the distance between you two before your pants fall off to the ground. She's fully clothed, save for her hat, but you're just left in your shirt and panties. Her hands return to your skin, now without gloves, and the touch is like electricity to this house, heating you deeply- deeper than skin touch. She grips your flesh, letting you lift your hips as she fustles with the cotton.
“You're so, so pretty, baby.” Her words are soft, as if she was captured from just the sight of your clothed pussy, bare legs. You let your hand find her cheek, the other on her shoulder, weeding through the few loose strands of her golden hair. “Then do something about it, Abby.” Abby must be a sinful name, a name filled with so much power like a hammer you yield over her- or the gun she held mere moments ago.
Irrespective of what her name means, she dives into you, teeth knocking against yours as she quickly moves down, using your body to her liking, moving it with just the softest but most indulgent touch you've ever felt. You moan for her, from her as she kneels, mouthing down your clothed stomach to your barely clothed hips.
She moves to kiss one of your thighs, moving to raise the other as she wetly attends to the meat of your thigh. She bites it lightly before moving up to your other inner thigh, letting her teeth graze the juncture and breathe fan oh-so close to your pulsing wetness.
She seems just as desperate as you are, something you never knew possible as she blows directly on your clothed clothes, blues looking up at you to watch you as if you're entertaining. You moan, nominally grinding into her as she moves to push her forearm against your hips, keeping you still for her pleasure.
“Abby,” you call, watching as she moves against your thigh, lips lingering and hot in the chill of this mansion. “Please.” Your one word is enough for her, and her hand moves to part your panties to the side, like a meal, a full course meal drips in front of her, she takes her rime, complimenting you with amazement dripping from her tongue. The fingers that are unoccupied glide through your folds, slick and gooey as she finds your clit, barely grazing it before she backs to your hole, swirling the wetness that accumulated from only a moment of her beauty attacking your own.
Your hips fail at lifting again, but you do get a bit of pleasure as her finger slips slightly into you, edging the line between teasing and fulfillment. She leans forward to praise your clutch, attend to the pulsing nub that tickles your thighs, your entire being, and now her own tongue. Tentatively, she licks against it, letting it flick against the infinitesimal pattern of her tongue. The flick jolts your head back into the rectangle of a cabinet with foggy glass. Your nails dig into the material until one finds a handle, gripping it until she lets her plush lips massage I to your bud. Your hands attacks her head like the glass panes beside you, nails carding through the tight braid to loosen it for your pleasure.
She digs herself into you, a quiet hum of a moan digging deep into your toes as they curl, rocking through when her finger parts, swirling again before plunging deep into you, letting her knuckles cute along your gummy walls. She doesn't have to search for your special spot, as if she already knew how deep it is, how to please you without a need to inch forward.
She's enough with barely enough, giving you a place so warm your mind fizzles into left our soda. She lets her tongue swap with her lips, alternating as she pumps herself into you, making you full from her saliva and finger. She's everywhere for you, finding a special sensation you migrate towards as your whines pick up, you sloppy pussy pulsing with ecstasy as she moves deeper, knuckle deep inside of you and curling deliciously to migrate towards that spongey spot deep inside. Your toes curl, fingers digging into her scalp as you push her against your warmth more, your thighs tensing but no mat h for her strength.
Irrespective of her strength, she gives you what you want, dining at a restaurant when angling herself to your wetness, the taste of you more intoxicating than the Stash of liquor the rich afforded. You feel it coming, a buzzing underneath your skin, migrating towards your toes and spending from your core as her lips tickle your clit again, suctioning like you're a lollie before her finger curves and massages the tension of your spit.
You cum without a warning wafting from your tongue, your hips shaking and your lips digging into one another to silence the pleasure you feel. You're wrecked with it, wrestling with her slowing ministrations as your core relaxes, mushy and pleased. She seems pleased herself, entertained even as she parts from your pussy licked clean like supper as she pushes your panties back, offering a sloppy kiss over the sticky cotton. You huff, lips parting to say something before wind attacks the outside of the house, window chilled with a harsh howling.
“Shit,” you breathe, chest laying to rest from her ministrations and the scare of wind. “Guess we have more time to spare,” she offers, looking with those blue eyes as stars. You'd be blinded if they were stars, and you'd allow it, lap it up like cactus juice in the desert. “I am still a bit chilly.” You reach for her, and she lets you.