If you hadn't postponed watering the monstera until today, you probably wouldn't have even noticed
The bedroom window is open just a crack
You haven't touched it since Monday night, when you'd slammed it shut before the rain could get in
Maybe you just hadn't realized until now. Then again, you definitely would have felt the draft
You close the window with a frown and forget about it an hour later
Thing is, though, that these things suddenly start to pile up. A book you put back in the shelf is on the living room table. The bathroom soap is a little too much to the left. Your shampoo has gone missing entirely
Maybe it's all the stress from work. Maybe you just keep forgetting where you're leaving your things
For two months, you feel like you're losing it. You've read through dozens of articles about early onset dementia, about brain tumors and other awfully frightening things that could be at the heart of your sudden memory loss
Then, one night just like any other, you wake up to a crash from the kitchen as loud and as sudden as a gunshot
When you get there, the fridge door is open and last night's leftover bolognese is splattered across the cabinets, the inside of the fridge, and the off-white floor
It takes the cops almost an hour to get there - an hour you spend hiding in your bedroom, phone held in one fist and a bread knife in another
"We'll keep an eye out," is all they say after briefly checking your place over. Your valiant effort not to scream in their faces goes unseen and unappreciated
Once they're gone, you stare at the mess with stinging, exhausted eyes
You shouldn't leave it until morning. It will harden and the stains will be impossible to get out
The thought of scraping tomato sauce from the creaces between the tiles at three am is enough to make you turn on your heel, grab a cigarette from your jacket pocket and head out the door
It's drizzling outside. The sound, combined with the sharp hiss of your lighter flashing to life, chases away the nervous jitter stubbornly sticking to your fingers. You dip your cigarette into the flame and burn through a solid third on your first drag
You can't quite stand still; either you're chewing skin off your bottom lip or kicking invisible rocks off the front step. You feel like an overcharged battery left too long in the sun and about to blow
The though of going back inside makes saliva pool below your tongue and nausea roil in your stomach
Someone was there. Someone was really there. The same someone who has been in and out of your house for god knows how long, going through your things and driving you insane little by little
You could call a friend, apologize for the late hour and crash on someone's couch. If you're lucky, someone might still be awake
You flick your wrist and watch the burnt ashes of your smoke get caught in the wind and fly across the street where you can no longer see them
It's as you turn your head that you see her there, behind the trash cans, half-hidden in the alley
A woman, dressed in ratty clothes, dark and soaked to the last thread. She lifts her chin and the streetlight above illuminates her face
Her eyes are wide, determined, and pointed directly at you
You share an electrified second and a half of direct eye contact, after which you toss the remains of your cigarette onto the step and rush back inside
Through the cracked window on the door, you watch her
She watches you back
There's no way to be certain, no irrefutable evidence, but the dread making the hairs on your arms stand on end gives you the icky feeling that this is the person who was in your kitchen mere moments ago
She's probably been here this whole time - when the cops got here, when they left, when you came out. She must've been stationed right there, across the street, watching it all play out
The anxiety and doubt that's plagued you ever since you came across that open window is set alight and from the ashes rises fury so abundant that you can't stop yourself
You open the door
She sees you coming and slips into the alley behind her. Though she easily loses you, the city is silent and the sound of her feet slapping against wet pavement is easy to follow
You run through one alley, another, take a turn and then another yet again - this person is no stranger to these streets
One more corner and you're faced with a thin strip of asphalt crammed between two residential buildings split in two by a tall chainlink fence and a row of bulging garbage bags
The stranger is halfway up the fence and you pray for strength and a good bit of luck as you run, run, run and then leap, hand outstretched
Your fingers catch the tail end of her long military brown jacket, and your weight is enough to tear her fingers from the fence
Breath escapes you with a slam as your back hits the ground. The woman collapses on top of you, her chin painfully digging into your lower ribs
You gasp for air and flail helplessly to try and shake her off to no avail - she's too heavy and her legs are twined with yours
Instinctively you make a fist and pull your arm back, nails digging into the flesh of your palm hard enough to sting, but before you can think of striking, there's a knife on your neck; a little switchblade no longer than your middle finger. You cease your struggle as soon as you feel the steel meet the underside of your jaw
The words are on the tip of your tongue. What are you waiting for? Isn't this why you're here? But your mouth is locked up tight and you seem to have lost the key
She pulls the blade away and draws a sharp line down past the length of your neck until it rests comfortably right above your heart
When the tip has torn a hole in your shirt, she pulls herself up to a seated position, knees on either side of your hips
"You're even prettier than I thought," she says quietly. Her voice is rough, unstable like a toy boat at sea, lost and fumbling
She reaches forward and presses her palm against your cheek so that her fingers are at the base of your ear, and strokes the underside of your eye with her thumb
Her smile is small and trembling, like she's conjuring it up based on a picture, without muscle memory
"I've been waiting for this, you know." She pauses long enough to pull down her hood. Long, dirty hair falls free and lays flatly along her shoulders. "Meeting you."
She takes a good look at you, from your wide eyes and gritted teeth to the straining tendons in your neck, past your heaving chest and down to your exposed belly
"What's your name?" she asks
The joints meant to move your jaw are jammed. She taps the knife three times against your chest
"Come on, now."
You peel open your lips and tell her, each syllable like molasses in your mouth
She smiles wider, apparently satisfied. "I'm Amanda. Nice to meet you."
A car speeds by on the nearby street and your head snaps toward the noise
"Now, now," Amanda says. "There's no need to be scared." She cranes her neck and watches the opening between the two buildings until the sound of tires has disappeared. Then she turns back to you, her head hanging low. "Here's what we're going to do. Are you listening?"
The pavement scratches the back of your head painfully as you nod
"Good. I'm going to get up and you get to stretch your legs a little, right? Then you're going to wait here like a good little puppy until I'm gone. And then," she draws a little heart against your sternum, "you can go home. Got it?"
You nod again, but she doesn't move. Instead, she pulls at your lower eyelid with the tip of her thumb and says, "You better behave now."
She watches you breathe in three times, and only then rises to her feet slowly, the knife lazily pointed at you the entire time
"See you around," she says, and takes off
When her undone laces have disappeared behind the corner, you shakily pull yourself up and inhale deeper than you have all your life, knees drawn to your chest and a palm over the hole in your shirt
Your hair is soaked with grimy rainwater, as is your back. It's cold without the warmth of another body, and shivers quickly start crawling up and down your arms like a colony of spiders
You consider, only briefly, calling the cops again. You've seen the assailant, you know this is real. She was here
Would she let you make the call, though? You really doubt that she's gone far, and you have a feeling that the moment you dial will be your last
You need time to think, to go through your options. You dig your phone out of your pocket, thankfully still functional, and send a few texts to people living close by. None of them answer, but they'll get up for work. It's only a few hours away
Fifteen minutes you spend curled up on the ground, trying to remember how to move your limbs, and then you finally rise, scared and exhausted and trembling head to toe
It's not that long of a walk, but it's enough time for you to get something together
You'll need locks for all the windows as well as the front door. You don't know how much an alarm system will cost, but it's worth the money. Something to defend yourself; a baseball bat, maybe. Or something sharp
Amanda's hollow, sunken in eyes are branded into the black spaces between your blinks, and the look in them is strangely ravenous
You try to imagine how her brow would curve when she's frightened, cornered like an animal; how satisfying it will be when the tables turn
You don't know when she'll be back, but this time you'll be ready
Would you be willing to write Amanda x trans man reader?
as a trans guy myself all of my writing is made with this angle in mind unless someone asks for fem reader! if there's anything specific you want in your request just shoot me another ask :)
Amanda comes visiting late at night and, refusing to take care of herself, she leaves the job to you
Warnings: Mentions of self harm
She comes in through the window the way she always does
Climbing the fire escape is like second nature by now. The only downsides of this are the grimy footprints left on your carpet and the fact that she keeps knocking over the crocus on the windowsill
She brings the scent of rain with her - it sticks to her skin like a kiss
"You're wet," you mumble as she crawls into bed. She's taken her shirt off, but the cold still shocks you when her belly meets the part of your back where your top has ridden up
"You got that right," Amanda says. You try to gently smack the top of her head, but your palm lands innocently on the pillows above her instead
"What time is it?" you ask
Her lips press into the back of your neck, and the cold sends a shockwave of shudders skittering to the base of your spine
"Five am, maybe," she says. There's an exhaustion to her, a slight slur to her words like she's already falling asleep
She presses closer to you and you grit your teeth - she's freezing
"Are you sure you shouldn't take a shower or something?" you ask her, craning your neck to try and see her, but she's buried her face between your shoulder blades
"I'll be fine," she says
You turn over to face her and the sight is startling; she's curled up into a little ball, fingernails sunken into the flesh of her calves, hair soaking wet and face twisted into a little frown. Her eyes are closed and her nose is pressed neatly between her knees
You put your hand on her shoulder and she lifts her face up to press her cheek into the back of your palm
You throw off the sheets. Amanda's eyes open suddenly, but before she can ask you what you're doing, you're already pulling at her arm to get her out of bed
She groans and only curls up further. "C'mon. I just want to sleep."
"You'll catch your death if we don't get you warmed up first."
She's uncomfortably silent for a moment too long, but just as you're about to ask her if everything's all right, she gives in and peels herself off the bed
She looks like a ghost, like if she stood still enough, she might fade into the wallpaper and never come back. Her eyes are sunken and her skin is pallid; she probably hasn't eaten well in a while
You swallow back the questions, get a grip on your worried frown and pull her toward the bathroom
The light flickers on weakly - you berate yourself for forgetting to change the bulb. Amanda seems to pay it no mind, though. She stands silently while you grab towels, get the shower running and then close the bathroom door
You can get a better look at her now, and what you see only makes the weight in the bottom of your stomach heavier. She's clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, but her shoulders are shaking from the cold. There's dark stains on her face; just under her nose and above her right eyebrow. Her eyelashes are stuck together with the same substance, and little crumbs come loose whenever she blinks
Undressing takes little time, and as soon as the water is warm enough, you guide Amanda under the stream
Her hair falls over her face and she follows the pull of the weight until her head is bowed, almost like in reverence. When she's completely soaked, she starts to pick at the crust under her fingernails
As she reaches for your shampoo, you curl your fingers around her wrist
"Let me?" you ask. She turns her head just enough to get a look at you, but you can't decipher the emotion in her expression
"Sure."
Her hair is soft between your fingertips, and when little black and red flecks get caught in the creases of your palms, you do your best not to think about it
You know very little about what she calls the work, and she's made it very clear that it's better you don't ask
It's moments like this, though, when you wonder. Whose blood are you washing out of her hair? Where did the oil stains on her arms come from? And why does she always smell like heavy machinery when she comes to see you?
It takes effort to keep your nose out of it. Some days you swear you're going to crack and ask her, or god forbid, follow her. Then you think of that time you found her washing blood off her hands in your kitchen sink with the rough side of a dish sponge, unblinking. And then you remember that it's better to leave it
In any case, the condition Amanda is often in upon arrival is usually enough to make you forget about all of it
This is thankfully one of the better nights, where nothing needs stitching, where you don't have to keep yourself from counting the new lines criss crossed across the length of her thighs. No bruises either, no burn marks. She's been able to hold off for another night
"That feels nice," Amanda says, almost purring out the words when you massage her scalp
There's a bittersweetness to her statement, an invisible sour edge that makes you acutely aware of Amanda's inexperience with small kindnesses
You hope she'll think of this moment the following night, wherever she is
The water sliding down her back is a greyish brown when she rinses her hair, and you follow the stream with your eyes as it circles the drain and eventually disappears
"All done?" you ask. Amanda turns to face you, and the circles under her eyes look like oceans, they're so deep. She's practically falling asleep on her feet
She leans forward and kisses your shoulder, arms circling your waist to hold you close
You rest your hands on the smooth expanse of her back and breathe deep. The smell of gasoline still lingers, but it's fainter now. Easier to ignore
The urge to hum hits you, but you can't settle on a song
Amanda presses her lips to the shell of your ear, and turns off the water without looking. You grab a towel for yourself off the toilet seat and offer her one of her own, one she takes quietly
After she's dried her hair and the towel is wrapped around her waist, she waits for you to take her hand before leading you back to the bedroom
You don't bother with clothes, not when you know she's going to be warming you up the rest of the night
Amanda is asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow
You have no such luck. Maybe it's the early hour, or maybe it's because you got up already. Maybe it's because you can't stop paying attention to your heartbeat, slow and heavy. Or maybe you thought too hard about this thing between you to have a chance at going back to sleep
You stare at the wall, at the thin pillars of morning light that have snuck past your curtains, and listen to her breathing, so steady and so still, so unlike the Amanda whose nails are jagged because she can't stop gnawing on them, who's constantly moving, shifting between your hands like sand
Her soft snoring bounces off the walls and you leave a kiss in the spot between her brows
You only hope there won't ever be a day when she doesn't come home
hi! not sure if we request through the message box but hi! hello! first off just wanted to say
love love love the way you write Amanda!! I work at a home improvement store like Home Depot so I really enjoyed your last story haha
is there anyway you could write a version with a female reader who works with plants in the garden center? donât know WHAT Amanda would be doing in the flowers section but maybe she could be there just to see the reader? please and thank you! âĽď¸âĽď¸âĽď¸
Thank you so much! I love her so much and I really try to do her justice :)
This is now posted here! It turned out a little angsty but I hope you like it <3
She's been standing there by the lilies for twenty minutes now
Occasionally she'll lift her hand like she's about to make a choice, but then her fingers would bend as if burned by the air, and then she's still again
People push past her to get to the other side of the narrow walkway between the displays, and some of their elbows are forceful enough to nearly make her topple. Most of them don't even bother to apologize
At twenty five minutes you're finally finished misting the orchids, and though you briefly consider just moving on to the calatheas, the sight of her is too strange to leave uninvestigated
"Ma'am?" you call as you approach, but she doesn't respond. A slight twitch in her neck is the only indication that she heard you at all
You stop beside her, close enough for your shoulders to touch
"Could I be of assistance?" you ask her, angling your head to try and get a look at her face
The sight you're greeted with instantly explains why none of the others have stopped to help
She's clearly trying not to cry. Her eyes are red-rimmed and moisture sheens at the waterline, but the way she's clenching her jaw indicates that she has no interest in letting the tears come falling
Her hands are held tightly in fists that leave her knuckles white
She offers no response, so you accept defeat with a bow of your head
"Sorry for bothering you, ma'am," you say. "Let me know if you need anything."
Right as you turn to head for the calatheas, her bony fingers grab the back of your shirt
"Wait."
Her voice is rough and strained, like she's been stressing the muscles of her throat for days
You turn back to her, but she's not looking at you. Instead, her eyes are focused on the lilies
"Which one should I choose?" she asks as her eyes flit over the selection
You ache to ask her about the occasion, to squeeze at least a few details out of her, but you fear speaking out of turn will make her retreat back into her shell. Hoping you're not testing the limits of her patience, you turn to the flowers after a moment of contemplation
The table holds sixteen lilies in all, and most of them are looking rather well, but it's one of the back row plants that catches your eye
The setting sun peeks past the greenhouse roof behind you and grants the petals a pale golden color contrasted by the thick, deep green of the leaves beneath. Two of the flowers are still only buds, but with a little care they'll bloom beautifully
You reach for the plant without hesitation and offer her the pot
It's not quite so magical cast in the woman's shadow, but she clutches the dirty plastic like it's holding her mother's ashes anyway
For the first time, she looks at you. As she turns her head, her hair, long and greasy, shifts away from her neck
It takes effort to keep your expression calm when you catch sight of the nasty scar on her jugular
The woman stiffens and grinds her teeth as if in challenge, to try and dare you to say something
You don't. It's a long three seconds that you keep silent
The woman stares at the ground, searching for invisible details in the gravel, her mouth only a thin line stretched from cheek to cheek
She pushes past you so hard you have to slam your palm into the table to stay standing
"Shit," you hiss as you straighten yourself, and when you turn your head to see where she's going, you freeze
Haunting is how you would describe her. She's standing awkwardly, head turned back toward you, unable to take her eyes off the lilies, and my, what eyes they are in the sunlight; round with indecision and richer in color than the branches of the arborvitae behind her
She gnaws dead skin off her lower lip and swallows it, never blinking once
"They were his favorite," she says, barely above a murmur, and if the wind hadn't carried her words you doubt you would've heard them at all
In that moment she seems so thin she might fall over if you so much as breathe toward her
"I hope he likes them," you say quietly
The crease between her brows deepens violently, but before you can see the rest of her crumble, she turns on her heel and barrels through a bed of petunias to disappear behind the greenhouse
The weight that had subtly settled on your chest suddenly lifts and you take a deep breath, though it does little to settle your nerves
It's now too late to take that break, but perhaps it's for the better if you keep yourself occupied until the silhouette of her, sunken and hollow and grieving, fades enough for you to think clearly again
Your shift has been grueling and you're more than eager to start closing up, but a woman rushes in so quick she nearly bumps into the automatic door
She's skittish; her fingers twitch rhythmically, and she keeps adjusting her hood to sit better over her head
You drowsily watch her circle the store for ten minutes
Eventually she grows frustrated and lifts her head
The look in her eyes nails you into place. There's more sclera than iris, and it makes her look like a dog straining at its chain
She marches toward you with the determination of someone about to kill, and you almost want to disappear between the shelves and hope someone else will pick up your slack
In the end you stand your ground, though, and try to hide the soft tremble of your fingers. She stops so close to you that she nearly steps on your toes
"I need an external hex screw," she says. No hello, no introduction. Definitely no smile.
Now she's up close, she's barely even looking at you. Her eyes comb through everything but your face, starting from the meandering customers at the back and ending at the gardening tools you were lazily organizing. She reminds you of a nervous rat scanning for trouble
"This way, ma'am," you eventually say and begin to lead her down the isle
The walk is completely silent, and the whole way the woman keeps glancing at you like you're not moving fast enough
"We don't have them individually packaged, unfortunately," you say as the shelf is in sight
She only nods in reply
"Did you have a size in mind?"
Another nod, no elaboration. Her eyes scour the row you gesture at, and then she snatches the box she needs off the shelf
Without a word, she turns and heads off, presumably toward the exit
You can't help staring at the back of her head as she goes. It's not like this is the first rude customer you've ever come across, but there's something haunting about her, like you'd just dodged a bullet by not making conversation
Regardless, there's a gnawing curiosity somewhere in the back of your head, an itch in the tips of your fingers, a desire to know more
You entertain the idea of going after her, asking her name and why she looks so out of place at a hardware store near closing time
By now she's probably shoved cash at the poor guy working the register and barrelled out the door, and it is much, much too late to do anything about it
As much as you agonize over it, you end up leaving the show half an hour early
It was supposed to be a fun Friday with thrash metal and friends, but all you got was the worst migraine in a year
To crown it all off, you miss your bus by mere seconds because the driver couldn't wait for you to catch up - even though you're sure he saw you waving
Your place isn't that far, only a thirty minute walk or so, but at this hour you'd have much preferred to sit down and listen to your ears ring than dodge creeps on the sidewalk
There's no real option, though, so you swallow the string of curses that teases the tip of your tongue and get going. At the very least it's not raining anymore
Three turns and an alley later, you jaywalk across the street and come to the front of a closed up video store. The neon lights still blink, but the building is nothing but bones anymore
Right by the corner, her face drowned by shadows, stands a woman. The fishnets alone are enough to catch your attention
"Got a light?" she asks. Her voice is smooth and crackly, like nails on worn denim
You couldn't possibly consider walking past her. You don't know if it's the poorly bleached hair, the leather jacket or the legs as long as your journey home, but you stop in front of her and dig through your pockets
After an awkward second or two, you pull out a cheap plastic lighter with a scratched label and flick it on
Her grin is hungry as she leans forward to let the flame lick her cigarette
After she's taken a drag, she looks you up and down
"What's a pretty thing like you doing out so late?"
You shrug and clear your throat. "Missed my bus."
"Public transit, am I right?" She laughs - the sound is cheap and dirty like pennies against marble. She takes another drag and blows the smoke right in your face
You fight off the instinct to cough and hope that you might have impressed her by inhaling as slow and smooth as you can make it
She doesn't say anything else, but the way she looks at you shifts. The way she delicately squints her eyes feels searching, like she's assessing you
The realization of where and when you are strikes you like sparks across the back of a match and you take this as your sign to get going
"I'm in a hurry, but um." You pause, unsure of how to remove yourself from this situation without offending her. "Have a good night."
The woman lifts her cigarette at you with a smile
You keep peeking over your shoulder the entire way home, because even after you've turned the corner you swear you can feel her eyes on your back
It's only after checking the lock on your front door three times that you can really breathe
The campus library has never been a particularly busy place, but tonight it is even more sparingly occupied than usual
It doesn't take long to find the textbooks you were looking for, so you take a few moments to browse; see if there's anything interesting in the sociology section, or maybe something on philosophy to read before bed
As you pass historical non-fiction, you see her out of the corner of your eye
It's that woman from introduction to cognitive science who always arrives late and leaves five minutes early. She's tucked at the furthest end of a table between two massive hardwood shelves, and it doesn't take long to figure out that she's crying
She holds her sleeve against her mouth but the look on her face is almost frightening. Her eyes are squeezed shut and there's a crease between her brows so deep it could've been carved with a knife
You stand there looking like a fool, shoes glued to the floor because you can't help but stare
She opens her eyes and pulls her head up to breathe in, but her inhale is splintered, like her lungs have lost all sense
Then she turns and reaches for something in her bag with trembling hands - her phone
She types something, bent in half at the waist, and then wipes her forehead with her sleeve
She has to hold the table for support as she rights herself, and as she lifts her head to look at something, maybe the clock over your head, she sees you
There's this look in her eye, like a child caught stealing
Guilt. Fear. Knowledge of the fact that she's out of place and she's been seen
She throws her books into her bag, zips it up and rushes past you, nearly tripping over her feet as she bumps into you
"Hey, are you-" The words follow the woman in a dripping echo, but either she can't hear you or she's choosing not to
The few people in the building glare at you and your raised voice, and you try to ignore the heat creeping up the neckline of your shirt
You almost run to the self checkout, but by the time you've made it out the door, the woman is long gone
If she makes it to class next week, maybe you'll try and talk to her
Hi everyone! I'm currently in the middle of a move and life's been very busy. Wanted to thank all of you for your patience -- I AM working on your requests, I swear, it's just that time's a bit tight right now :') Thank you so much for sending your asks to me, I love you guys so much <3
Character: Nadja of Antipaxos
Word Count: 6,079
Warnings: Blood, Vampire-typical violence, death
Rating: M (for violence -- no smut today)
Description: Watching the dying womanâs slowly rising chest with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like youâve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind â the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead manâs flesh on her tongue.
--
There's no worse (or better) day to work a night shift than when Nadja of Antipaxos arrives in London. She is bound to be angry, and very, very hungry.
A/N: Happy season 5 countdown!! Hereâs a bit of Nadja to ease the wait.
The cigarette tastes bitter and stale as you take a drag and blow out a puff of smoke. You quit a year ago. And then again, two months later. One more time, at the end of June. It never did quite stick.
âYou alright, mate?â
One of your co-workers, a man in his late fifties dressed in grimy company overalls and a worn blue cap comes to stand beside you. He seems to be enjoying his smoke significantly more than you.
You never did remember his name. Cal? Cap? Cam? It definitely started with a C.
âYeah,â you say. âJust savoring it.â You gesture at the dirty midnight streets of Hackney. Nothing quite like working the nights to figure a new place out, to find the heart of it.
Someone pukes a few corners down, and you throw out the remaining half of your cigarette, no longer interested.
Cam laughs. âNice night for sure. You been here long?â
âArrived a month back.â You breathe in the stinging air, savoring the bite of Camâs cigarette smoke.
âLondonâs all right.â Cam leans his hand over the paint can acting as an ashtray and flicks his cigarette. The burnt remains fall like little snowflakes. âItâs not like films or nothing, but itâs all right. Could be worse.â
âOh, yeah?â you ask him just as a man, presumably the same one who emptied his stomach just moments ago, stumbles into view and passes you by, careening first towards you, and then back into the opposing wall. You can smell the piss on him all the way from here. âWhat qualifies as worse?â
Cam coughs and smiles for the first time. His teeth are yellow, and one of them is chipped.
âLetâs just leave it at that, eh?â he says, drains the rest of his cigarette, and throws the remains into the can. He clears his throat wetly, and spits a ball of phlegm into the gutter.
âTime to go?â you ask. He nods quietly, and you follow him back inside.
The warehouse is massive compared to any youâd worked in before. Black splotches crawl from floor to ceiling in a mixture of shadows and spilled engine oil. Yellow support beams reach all the way to the top, stained and worn from holding the place up since the day it was built. The walls are solid concrete, save for the huge shutter doors that open into the chilly night like windows into a different dimension.
The place is bustling â people swarm it like bees loading and unloading, shouting for assistance or barking orders, driving heavy, wheezing trucks and whizzing by on forklifts. The noise is immense.
âThere you are!â A gruff male voice calls a few feet away, muffled by the crowd. Your head whips in his direction as he pushes past a group of men with clipboards and hardhats.
Your boss, Tomas, is hard to forget â thick, wild eyebrows constantly bent in disappointment, gaunt cheeks covered in greying stubble, and the constant, pungent stench of sweat poorly disguised by cheap cologne. Heâs huffing heavily by the time he reaches you. âWhere the fuck have you been, eh?â
Sorry,â you say, tongue thick and dry in your mouth as you try to speak. âI didnât know weâd alreadyââ
âBull-fucking-shit, I say.â His hands are for once out of his pockets, and he points his dirt-stained finger towards a Barrington Freight truck that had just entered the building. âGet to work or youâre out â both of you.â
Without another word, you scurry to the truck with Cam on your tail. Cam, who is entirely unbothered by getting chewed out by the boss. He digs something out of his teeth with his little finger and shakes his head as he approaches.
âDonât worry about it,â he says and pulls you out of the way as the truckâs rear doors swing open. He pats your shoulder, much like you imagine a father would. âHe pulls that shit every time you take a break. You get used to it.â
You glance back at Tomas, currently busy shouting at a truck driver with so much force you can see spit all the way from here.
âCome on,â Cam says. He climbs inside the cargo space and then offers you a hand that you gratefully take.
Multiple hours pass by in chunks of wrapping and piling and driving and avoiding the wrathful eye of Tomas. Itâs monotonous work, work that will remind you of its price the following morning when you roll out of bed only to realize that your back is permanently bent in the shape of an S. But it pays the bills. Parts of them, anyway.
The truck empties slowly, and it seems to be matching up with your lunch break quite nicely. You canât say you look that forward to fifteen minutes in the front seat of your car with a sandwich and a water bottle, but itâs still a little bit of breathing room.
Just a little further.
There are two crates left, both of them shoddily thrown together and just a bit taller than you, and if you werenât a little bit superstitious, you might have even said they look like coffins.
You go to push one of them towards the forklift, currently operated by Cam, but stop as soon as youâre close enough to put your hands on the fractured surface.
The edge of the lid is slightly open, the nails still trying to keep it shut completely bent out of shape. Some of them are missing altogether. A thin crack runs down from the corner of the lid and ends right in the middle.
âHey, Cam?â You chance a quick glance at him, just to make sure his half-open eyes are looking at you. âWhat do we do about this?â
He doesnât ask what this is, doesnât say anything at all, and instead clambers into the truck, absentmindedly scratching at the bald patch hidden beneath his cap.
âAh, shit,â he says and wipes his forehead. âWe gotta check for damage, make sure the goods are still good. If everythingâs okay we just seal it back up and let it find its owner like any other package. Got it?â
âGot it.â
You donât know if heâs talking protocol or if heâs pulling this out of his ass to cover for you, but you appreciate it all the same. Cam looks around for a moment and then hops back out of the truck. He returns with a banged up crowbar, nicked and stained by countless doors and boxes. Maybe even a burglary, who knows.
He turns around, looks both ways, and closes the rear doors behind him.
âYou got a light?â he asks, and you quickly fish your phone from your pocket to guide him with its flashlight.
Cam dips the crowbar under the lid of the strange crate and places his foot carefully at the other end.
âCover your ears,â he says, and you do as youâre told.
The wood cracks as the lid breaks into two. You watch the broken piece ricochet off the wall and clatter to the floor, right by your feet.
âWhat the fuck?â Cam whispers. He takes a cautious step back, the crowbar held tightly in his hands, pointed toward the crate like a knife.
You frown from your position a few feet away. When he doesnât say anything further, you approach him, steps loud and heavy, heart fluttering with curiosity and a healthy dose of fear. Youâve known Cam for all of five hours, but you get the feeling that he usually doesnât rattle easily.
You look inside the crate, and breath runs from you like a pheasant in the burning woods.
A corpse. Inside an obsidian coffin with a broken lid lies a beautiful woman, perfectly preserved. Her nose is straight and sharp, and the curve of it leads down to thick lips, painted dark crimson. Her skin is dry and cracked around her knuckles, and there are splinters under her long nails. Black hair cascades down her shoulders onto her preposterously detailed dress â an incredibly well-kept antique by the looks of it. Early 19th century, maybe? If it werenât for the dried mascara on her cheeks, she might as well be a porcelain doll, posed and painted to perfection.
âDo you mind?â
Something shuffles beneath the wood, and small childlike hands reach for the splintered edge. Some far off place in your brain wants to warn her to not touch it, but youâve long since lost contact with your mouth.
A doll nearly identical to the dead woman crawls into sight, its face twisted in frustration.
âWell, what are you staring at?â it asks. âHow about a little help?â
You scream and lose your footing as you try to back away. Pain flares in your spine as your back hits steel. Your phone falls from your hand but the light stays on to coldly illuminate the insanity in front of you. By your side, Cam is like a statue of stone, with the crowbar now pointed at the little doll.
Beneath it, the woman creaks to life. A thin layer of dust billows forth as her hand rises slowly, reaching for Cam. Cam, whoâs offered her a helping hand in return.
You canât look away. Youâve never been the type.
The womanâs fingers curl around Camâs wrist and she snatches a grown man off his feet like heâs made of thin air. A snarl tears from her throat when she opens her mouth and crushes his throat between her jaws. He doesnât even have time to scream before his neck snaps, the crack soft compared to the moist crunch of the womanâs teeth â fangs sinking into him. The second he is dead, she pulls her head back, and slowly, as if sheâs savoring the feeling, she rips off a piece of flesh and suckles it, her cheeks hollowing, and then spits it across the cargo space. In a flash, sheâs back at Camâs neck to nuzzle the spraying arteries, the mangled flesh, the red bone â almost like in prayer, like this is a holy gift sent from the gods and the only thing she can do is accept.
She licks his exposed jugular, dips her jaw into the crevasse of his destroyed throat, and drinks.
Cam empties of fluid in seconds, and his husk of a body falls to the floor with a hollow thud.
The woman lets go with a thin gasp. She wipes her eyes, wipes her mouth. Her hair is soaked, as is her entire face, and she leaves a dripping trail as she climbs out of the crate, red handprints sharp against its pale wood.
She smacks her lips and coughs, mouth downturned in disgust.
âOh, ugh,â she says. âAnemia.â She blows a raspberry and shakes her head. âFuck me.â
âBeen there, done that,â the doll says, its plastic face dyed a deep, dark red. âYou made a hell of a mess, there.â
The woman turns to the doll and makes a face â apparently one of offense, because the doll flips her off in return.
âYou try doing this shit,â the woman says, and kicks Camâs body to emphasize her point. A twitch shakes you from head to toe. âI havenât gone this hungry since I had to flee the country in 1857.â
The doll imitates her voice mockingly, and the woman curses potently in return. She grabs a bunch of her soaked hair and twists it; a small puddle of blood forms by Camâs corpse.
âWait,â the doll says. âWhat about that one?â
She points at you with a tiny pale hand, and all heat escapes your body. Your fingers feel like blocks of ice as you try to crawl toward the rear doors. Pressure builds in your throat and your mouth opens in an involuntary, instinctual scream of terror, but before a single squeak escapes, the woman rushes you at unprecedented speed and slams your back to the floor. Air explodes from your lungs, and if it wasnât for the womanâs hand firmly over your mouth, youâd be left gasping.
âIâm not sure,â she says. You whimper and try to free yourself, but her grip is like iron. You can only watch her, desperate, like a pleading mouse in the claws of a hawk.
She purses her lips and looks at you like yesterdayâs leftovers. âIâm still a little hungry. But I donât know if I want to finish this one so quickly.â
A hoarse wail slips past your lips despite the womanâs best attempts at keeping you quiet.
âLetâs take it with us, then,â the doll says, flipping its hair. âIâm down for some fun.â
âMaybe.â The woman turns your head from side to side, appraising. She lowers her face to your neck and your pulse picks up. Your breath quickens. Panic makes lights up inside of you like a flash fire. The woman drags her nose up your neck and places a sloppy kiss on your jaw, as if your fear only enhances her hunt. âI could go for a little snack, still.â
Tears burn your eyes and fall down your temples. The woman catches one, brushes it into your skin and then puts the finger in her mouth, her tongue peeking out to savor your fear.
âDonât worry, little morsel,â she says, and boops your nose with her manicured nail. âYouâre going to a good cause.â
You try to shriek past her hand but her hold only grows stronger as she bends over you and, despite your thrashing limbs, your punches and kicks and scratching fingernails, Â she plunges her teeth into the side of your neck.
It stings, sharp as a needle, and then the rest of her teeth dig in, like a vice lined with rows of broken glass. What follows is the strangest of sensations. Youâve had hickies from past lovers, even been bitten by your best friendâs niece, but itâs nothing like this feeling of being drained, emptied like pulling guts out of a fish.
Your fingers claw at her face out of pure instinct, nothing more. She swats you away like a fly and continues, uninterested in your distress.
Your flailing weakens when your limbs grow heavy, like theyâve been replaced with brick. The womanâs hair is in your face, thick and wet and suffocating, and the only thing you can see is neverending black, like staring into a dead void.
You begin to grow still, only twitching when the womanâs teeth dig deeper for just a few more drops.
Wood cracks behind you. The woman pulls back with a deep breath, heady and broken, and turns to look at the commotion along with you.
The other crate, the identical one; its lid is in shambles on the floor, and a man climbs out.
He is short, with a stubbled chin and a pale brown coat, stained with sweat. You smell something acrid as he comes closer, pushing his cracked glasses up his nose.
âHâHelp,â you whine through a mouthful of blood. You can barely lift your arm to reach for him. âPlease.â
The man looks at you, looks at the woman, and curses in Spanish.
âAre you fucking kidding me?â he says to the woman.
Darkness finally claims you.
â
You awaken, every muscle in your body sore and aching, in a beautifully decorated living room.
It is dimly lit with candles of wildly different shape and size, freely leaking wax onto the floor, the mantle of the fireplace and the coffee table. The walls are old and wooden, decorated with portraits of the people who must live here: a rich-looking family, blond except for the youngest son and the dog. Beside the paintings are thick curtains, their beautiful silk stapled shut to keep out the sun.
The sun.
How long has it been? What even happened?
You sit up with a groan, your head immediately protesting via a sharp blast of pain behind your eyes. The world flashes to white, then to black, and then finally fades back into view. Another pain bursts forth, this time on your neck, and you cover the spot with your hand, only to be met with a thick layer of bandaging.
You breathe in as deep as you can, and your throat burns, seethes like fire reduced to coals.
Thirsty.
So, so thirsty.
You swallow several times, but it brings forth the taste of vomit and inflames the pain in your mouth â in your teeth. Your canines ache like youâve badly chipped them, but when you feel the tips with your tongue, theyâre unharmed, if a little sore. And much sharper than you remember.
Something tickles the corner of your eye and you gently rub your lower eyelid. Whatever it is flakes off onto your finger. You blink away the spots in your vision and try to inspect the stain despite the dim lighting.
Blood. Long since dried, but impossible not to recognize.
You knead your whole cheek with the flesh of your palm and manage to scrape off a long stain that runs down from the corner of your eye to the top of your upper lip. Strangely, you canât find the source of it. Thereâs no cut â you canât even feel a bruise.
Something clatters in the distance, beyond a door to your right. You strain your ears for more, for footsteps or muffled words, but canât hear anything but the ringing in your ears.
As gently as you can, you set your feet down on the carpet, soft and plush, and probably worth more than your yearly salary. You test your legs, put a little bit of weight on both of them. A twinge of pain, an echo of severe strain, as if youâd just fought off an intense fever, but other than that, you manage to stand up fine with the assistance of a decorative floor lamp.
You place your palm against the wall, firm and steady, and take a step, just to test the waters. Though your knees wobble and every moment of it hurts, you manage to get moving.
The doorknob is old and made of brass. Your heart is in your throat as you turn it, only to meet no objection. It turns smooth as butter, and the door clicks open, inviting you further.
Beyond, you arrive into a dining room. A massive table stands in the middle of the room, laden with plates and trays of food, all of it half-eaten, like the occupants had stood and left in the middle of dinner. Their forks are still buried in potatoes and steak.
The smell is a crooked kind of heavenly. You know meat, remember it. Your uncle standing at the grill, turning sausages; shepherdâs pie right out of the oven; chicken wings, covered in barbecue sauce. But the smell is off, as if youâd forgotten the fine details of it and could only sense a hazy memory.
Your nose leads you to the spot at the head of the table, furthest from the door you entered. The veal on this plate is half-pink, the way youâd never eaten it.
You donât need a fork or a knife. You take hold of the nearest chair for support, snatch the meat from the plate with your bare hands and take a bite.
It goes down quickly, and you expect the satisfaction of a meal well prepared, but instead your stomach cramps and you heave, overtaken by nausea. The meager morsel comes up to stain the hardwood floor along with a splash of stomach acid, burning your esophagus like molten magma.
You stare at the mess, brows furrowed and your mouth open, drool still dripping off your lower lip.
Thirst strikes you as if youâre stranded at sea and you pick up a glass, half-full of wine. Usually, itâs not your drink of choice, but at this point you would drink gasoline straight from the pump if you could.
Your fingers tremble and the glass is at your lips, but your stomach turns â enough for you to gag and let the glass slip from your hand to shatter against the floor.
The sound, at least, is satisfying.
Another door to your right opens. You try to hide behind the chair, but your vision fills with dark spots again, and you sway, eyes barely open as you stare at the man standing in the doorway.
It comes back, then. Maybe itâs his cracked glasses, or the smell of viscera enveloping him, but you remember nevertheless.
A late night shift.
A crate.
Cam.
Sick burns the back of your throat all over again as you remember his bloodied corpse on the floor of the truck, staring at you with pale blue eyes, red-rimmed and frightened.
You finally fall to your knees, unable to keep yourself standing a second longer.
The side of your neck burns, and this time you tear at the bandage until it shreds to pieces. There, right where you remember the womanâs cold lips, is a bumpy scar in the shape of her teeth. Itâs not as rough as you imagined it would be.
âThatâll be gone in a week or two,â the man says, nonchalantly. âYouâll be good as new.â
He sounds almost derisive. Like you arenât worth his time. Like youâre beneath him.
A growl rises from your throat, deep and guttural. The tremble in your larynx is simultaneously foreign, like suddenly breathing fire, and as natural as breathing.
âYou,â you croak, your shaking finger pointing at his out-of-season sweater. He looks mildly amused, and not even vaguely threatened.
âOh, boy,â he says.
You leap over the table, dishes and decorations alike crashing to the floor as you clear the room in one single jump without an inch of wind-up. The man doesnât even take a step back. You snarl and circle him, taking in his scent, the sweet ambrosia staining his plastic apron.
âWhere am I?â you ask him. âWhat did you do to me?â
âI just wanted to take a bath,â he mutters to himself in a voice that should be far too quiet for you to hear. He reaches for his pocket slowly. Whatever weapon he has, you will not give him the chance to draw it.
You leap again with the full strength of your weakened legs, and hurtle right into the wall with a sharp crack as the man dances out of your way like water. He pulls a string of beads out of his pocket â to strangle you, perhaps? It doesnât matter. He wonât live long enough to lift his arms.
You curl your fingers, claws at the ready, and soar towards him again with a hiss. He dodges, an infuriating smirk on his lips â one that makes you want to break his nose. He slaps something into your back: cold metal that instantly turns searing. You shriek, your hands flying to cover the injury. Your knees buckle, and you bang your forehead into the corner of the table as you go down.
The man comes to stand in front of you and lets the beads dangle by his knees. Thereâs a beautiful cross between the rosary beads. He must have stabbed you with it â but thereâs no blood to prove it.
You pull your hand away from the wound, only to find no wound at all. Your fingers brush the bumpy ridges of a burn scar thatâs already beginning to fade.
You look up at the man, confused.
âWhatâs happening to me?â you ask him. In return, he looks at you like you're an animal too fragile to put down. A chick that got under his skin before he could lop the head off. The man rubs his temple and pockets the rosary.
âCome on,â he says, and puts his hand around your arm.
âWhat?â
He painfully lifts you to your feet, and you growl in protest.
The man rolls his eyes. âOh, shut up.â
Youâre shown through a variety of rooms: a library, a sitting room, a music room, and then up the stairs and through a long, dark hall lit with more candles. Every curtain in the house has been drawn, and some of the windows are covered with newspaper.
You arrive at a door thatâs identical to all the other ones: dark, wooden, and with an ornate brass handle. Itâs the smell thatâs different; sweet and rich and delicious, and it makes you fidget in anticipation as the man fixes his glasses on his nose and knocks twice, his knuckles sharp against the wood. The sound feels like an ice pick driven through your skull, hammered a good two inches in with each rap.
Muffled groans slip past the door, but no one answers. The man knocks again with a bothered sigh. When no one turns up, he opens it himself.
âNadja?â he says, annoyed.
Your jaw falls open at the sight on the other side.
On the floor are three bodies, mangled and dried up like raisins. A middle-aged man, tall and lanky, by the upended desk and its former contents. Another man, shorter and stockier, spread on the stained satin couch. A woman, no older than twenty, in front of the massive bookshelf by the farthest wall.
In the middle of the twisted formation is the woman, the one who murdered Cam.
Nadja.
Her face is buried in another victim, a woman in her forties with red hair and a ripped safety-vest. Her glasses fall off her nose as you watch.
The man next to you takes a look at your face and scoffs. âWell, we couldnât leave witnesses, could we?â
You wait for horror, for nausea and fright and all the things that come with seeing real dead people strewn on the floor of someoneâs personal library.
It never comes, though. None of it.
You donât faint in shock. You donât scream. You barely feel grief as a thick, pungent veil overwhelms you, like the perfumed kiss of a lover pressed to your forehead. The corners of your lips lift, and you feel a little laugh bubbling in your throat, just like after two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.
Nadja finally notices you two, and rolls her eyes. With a smack she releases the woman on her lap, who drops to the floor and begins to bleed freely into the ornate rug. It feels like a waste. You want to cup your hands beneath the tooth marks on her neck to save what you can.
âWhat the fuck, Guillermo?â Nadja says.
Guillermo points at you. âThis guy finally woke up.â
Nadja licks her teeth, digging at a bit of skin stuck between her incisors. âWhy is it my problem?â
âYouâre the sire.â His voice is deadpan, like heâs stating the obvious. âYou deal with it. I have my hands full with the shit you pulled back at the warehouse.â
Nadja groans like thereâs a knife caught between her ribs. You wait silently, lost in the strange haze caused by the smell â and the faint taste â of the room. Nadja worries at her teeth for one more moment and then finally gets up.
âFine. But just the basics.â
You feel her stare at you, but you canât take your eyes off the woman slowly bleeding to death in the middle of the room. The burning in your throat grows stronger, brighter, and butterflies take off in your belly when Nadja comes closer and brings the smell of death with her.
She snaps her fingers in front of your face, and you return to your body. She sighs.
âYouâre hungry, dumb-dumb.â She grabs the collar of your shirt to drag you into the room. The smell intensifies and you canât help drawing in a breath so deep you feel your lungs might burst.
Nadja stops and turns to Guillermo, who is still standing in the doorway. âWhat the fuck are you still here for?â
Guillermo looks like he wants to say something along the lines of fuck you and your mother too, but instead he offers Nadja a smile that doesnât even remotely reach his eyes and closes the door.
âGood.â Nadja lets go of you and you stumble, still unsteady on your feet. âNow, how are you feeling?â
âWhat?â you ask her through the smell invading the rest of your senses. The burnt orange light from the candles fades into a vivid maroon, casting the room into pulsing shadows, the strongest of which keeps pulling you towards the syrupy fragrance stuck to the woman discarded by Nadja.
Nadja laughs, and you marvel at the sound. Itâs harsh, like a swarm of bees or the screech of a cat.
âWeak in the knees? Little human tummy all upset? Feel like someone put you in one of those blendy things and drank you and shit you out?â
You tick every box on her list, slightly perturbed as to how she knew each one. She then looks at the drained bodies at your feet, specifically at the woman still gurgling only a foot and a half away from you.
âThirsty?â she asks with a honeyed voice.
You nod, too much and too fast, and regret it immediately when lightning strikes behind your eyelids.
âI thought so,â Nadja says and walks to the dying woman. She drags her to you by her arms, and her pained moans sound like sirens beckoning you into the dark depths of the sea. Nadja appraises you for a moment, takes careful inventory of your clothes, your hair, and then purses her lips. âHave you ever killed anyone?â
Some semblance of fear finally seeps into you, and you watch Nadja carefully, measuring the distance between you. âNo.â
âShame. You look like youâd be good at it.â
Nadja crouches and grabs the womanâs chin to turn her head and expose the neck. It isnât like in the movies, with two tiny round holes to mark the canines. The womanâs skin is rough and torn where Nadjaâs jaws were locked before, both rows of teeth firmly sunk into the flesh. Sheâs beginning to empty; the tide of blood grows slower on her neck and her wet gasps for air are fewer and far between. Based on the gently rueful expression on her face, she knows the end is near as well.
It twists the tight coil of panic in your gut.
Sheâs going to waste.
Nadja rises to her feet with a grunt.
âIâll help you, but only because youâre cute and itâs your first time,â she says. âOkay?â
âOkay,â you reply weakly through your trance. Nadjaâs hands encircle yours and she presses her thumbs into your palms to pull you down to your knees with her.
Watching the dying womanâs slowly rising chest, with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like youâve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind â the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead manâs flesh on her tongue.
Nadja takes your hand and places it behind the womanâs neck, slick with blood.
âHold on tight,â she says and waits as you tangle your fingers into the womanâs hair. âThe first time is the most intense â youâll need the support. Donât be afraid to break a few bones.â
Your mouth opens. The womanâs scent hits you like a mirror shattering, and you take a shuddering breath as you bend yourself over her. She coughs and wheezes, blood splashing from her lips, and she looks straight at you. Her eyes are the same shade of green as the calathea on your windowsill.
Nadja sighs. âLook, sheâs going to die anyway,â she says. âMake use of her or donât. I donât mind a bit of dessert.â
But you canât move. The woman is staring at you like a drowning mutt, and under her severe watch you canât make yourself take the leap.
Nadja slides herself behind you and presses into your back, her whalebone corset pronounced against your thin, sweat-soaked shirt. The beads of her dress prick at you, but her breast is soft on your shoulder blade.
She grabs a fistful of your hair and pushes your head down. You inhale slowly, let the enticing scent of iron, of cypress and cherries reach the back of your mouth, and nuzzle the womanâs neck. Nadjaâs fingers curl tighter against your scalp, and you finally feast.
The taste is inexplicable. Exquisite beyond your wildest hunger-ridden dreams. It reminds you of a hot summer day, at dusk when the sun has set but the air is still so humid you can feel it move on your skin; of the first autumn evening, when you get to dig candles from the back of your kitchen cabinet and put them by the window; of a winter morning spent indoors with your friends, bundled up by the radiator with a cup of coffee thatâs too bitter to drink.
It is relief. It is frenzy. It is peace of mind. It is hysteria.
The accursed burning in your throat ebbs at last, and you hear yourself laughing around the human flesh in your mouth. Something tears, splits, and you move deeper in search of more, more; you bite, you suckle, you drink like itâs your last day on earth until your lips are wrapped around an empty, sunken shell devoid of life, and more importantly, of sustenance.
You finally let go, gasping for air as the womanâs body falls from your hands and onto the floor, her head thumping as it hits the carpet. You lick the remains from your fingers, tongue dipping under the nail so you donât miss a single drop.
Nadjaâs hand untangles from your hair, and her head falls on your shoulder.
âGood, right?â she asks with a sigh. âI still remember my first time. The 1600âs were something else.â She cranes her neck to see your face and slips her arm around you to wipe something off your cheek. Her fingertip comes away bloody, and you open your mouth, but she quickly dips it between her own lips instead. She laughs, softer and more languid this time, and shakes her head. âSomeoneâs eager. But youâre lucky â this one was the best of the batch.â
âThank you,â you whisper. She looks at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.
âSo you do have manners.â She huffs another laugh, and runs her eyes down your face slowly, from the arch of your brow to the curve of your chin. âFeel any better?â
âYes.â The churning growl in your belly has been sated and replaced with a soft, heavy weight, a warmth that spreads all the way to the tips of your fingers. Your head has been filled with cotton and you have trouble keeping your eyes open anymore. âWarm. Good.â
Nadja smiles, wide enough for the tips of her fangs to peek from under her lip. âSleepy?â
You nod, leaning too hard into the movement, and find yourself approaching the floor at an alarming rate. Nadjaâs arm tightens around you, and she pulls you back until youâre off your knees and sagging against her instead. Engulfed by her sea of hair and the abundant layers of her dress, you wait for a reprimand with bated breath, but she lets you lie right where you are without a word. When you make the effort to look up, youâre met with her face, curiously watching you with a small and devious smile. Drops of blood are coagulating on her eyelashes, glittering like gemstones under the light.
âYouâre beautiful,â you say, drawing your thumb slowly across her cheekbone. Nadjaâs smile widens into a mischievous grin.
âI knew youâd be good at murder,â she says. âA little messy, but first kill is always like that. Weâll fine-tune your technique later.â
You finally let that champagne-laugh bubble over and it spills from your mouth like birdsong, bright and borderline hysteric. Nadja joins your laughter, and you both fall over to the squishy, bloodied carpet.
Your eyelids grow heavy as you float in the euphoria of feeling truly satisfied for the first time in your life.
"We're going to have so much fun," Nadja whispers. She brushes her hair off your face and kisses the curve of your jaw.
In the strong hold of her arms you let yourself sink into oblivion. Your dreams are filled with the sting of her knife-sharp teeth at your neck.
Can I request a Melissa x fem!reader fic where Mel has a praise kink. Maybe reader starts noticing her getting hot and bothered at work when she gets specific praise and starts teasing her with it.
Hi! Thank you so much for your patienceđI had a lot of trouble getting this one off the ground but now it's finally done!
Description: âWhen you say stuff like that,â she says, slower than usual, like sheâs figuring out the words as she goes, âI⌠I like it.â
Itâs an admission of the obvious, the most basic instinct of any person: to desire approval, and she makes it sound like sheâs turning herself in for manslaughter.
You take care to keep your voice calm as you say, âWhy would I think thatâs stupid?â
âI mean,â she says and then pauses for a breath, âI mean I really, really like it.â
---
Melissa has a secret and you crash right into her confession.
A/N: Strap in for the most emotional smut iâve written to date. Itâs so sugary you should probably brush your teeth afterwards. Title pulled from Spiritboxâs The Summit
---
The door slams shut at 7:30 sharp.
You rise from your downward dog on the living room floor and scramble down the hall, head rush be damned.
âMelissa?â you ask, but only hear the rustling of her leather jacket and the thump of heels ill-suited for the weather being angrily dumped by the door. Weary and barely standing, Melissa leans against the wall, her shirt damp, hair dripping and her eyes furiously staring at the umbrella she forgot to grab in her hurry.
You kiss her cheek and she slumps against you, face buried in your shoulder.
âLong day?â you ask.
âUnderstatement of the year.â
She pulls back and you notice the circles under her eyes, much darker than they had been last night. You put your hand on the small of her back and inch her towards the kitchen.
âCome on, I made dinner.â
Melissa looks at you like youâre made of cotton candy or fire trucks and presses a wet kiss to your forehead before letting her heavy feet drag her towards the smell of sweet potatoes.
She collapses into a chair by the kitchen table and you dash to the covered pot on the stove, still simmering on low heat. The second you lift the lid, the kitchen is filled with the scent of vegetable soup, rich and creamy. You fill a bowl and grab the leftovers of the ciabatta Melissa had made two nights back.
âI added extra pepper for you,â you say as you sit down next to her. The bowl clinks against the table and a few drops flow over the edge into a small puddle. âAnd thereâs a bit of bread left.â
âYouâre a godsend,â Melissa says. She pulls the bowl closer and sighs; her first smile of the night, and what a sweet little thing it is. Her eyes flutter closed as she tries a spoonful and doesnât speak for the following five minutes, which she instead dedicates to inhaling her first meal since lunch.
âWhat were you doing so late?â you ask once sheâs emptied the bowl down to a fifth.
âGrading.â Melissa tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the soup. She takes a bite, barely chews before swallowing, and continues, âSetting up next monthâs lesson plan, looking for a math textbook for Amir because the little dip lost his copy, replying to emails.â She sighs. âSo many fucking emails.â
âWell, Iâm happy youâre home now,â you say. A strand of Melissaâs hair threatens to fall into her bowl and you tuck it back behind her ear, where it belongs. Melissa smiles faintly, even though her shoulders are heavy with exhaustion and her eyes can barely stay open.
She finishes her meal in silence and once sheâs done, rises with a grumble to drop her dishes in the sink next to yours; the ones youâd meant to put in the dishwasher an hour ago.
Melissa turns and opens the cabinet only to groan at the sight; breakfast cereals and spices and your growing collection of baking supplies, all stuffed inside with little thought as to how youâre supposed to get anything out.
âDo we have any tea?â Melissa asks and starts to remove things one by one, her left hand held above her head in case something comes tumbling down.
âI think I saw chamomile behind the cake tins.â You get up and drag your chair with you. Sure enough, behind the heart-shaped mold and the powdered sugar is a bag of loose chamomile, still good to go. You hand it to her, and Melissa nods a silent thank you.
The kettle sits by the sink, freshly washed after youâd made yourself a cup of milky oolong earlier today. Melissa fills it with water while you hop down and put the chair back by the table.
The running water mixes with the pouring rain outside and you relish the quiet; the type of silence that Melissa always brings home with her, the kind that feels like its own form of music.
You wrap your arms around her waist as she turns on the stove and bury your nose in her hair.
âIâm so proud of you,â you say, almost kissing the words into the back of her neck. Melissa laughs, hushed and short.
âWhat for?â
âYou do so much for those kids.â You inhale her perfume; the scent is heady and sharp, like ground cinnamon. âTheyâre everything to you. I love you for it.â
âCome on,â Melissa says. âEverybody does it.â
You turn her around by the hips and press your palms into the counter.
âNo, they donât. Thereâs plenty of terrible teachers out there and we both know it. You just love doing a really good job.â
Melissa braces herself against the edge of the stove, her fingernails clicking a nervous ta-ta-ta-tap into the ceramic.
âDonât most people? I mean I justââ
âNo.â You kiss the tip of her nose. âYouâre brilliant. Incredible. My wonderful Melissa who does the most thankless job in the world for peanuts. You should be on a tropical island somewhere with six hundred free mai tais lined up. And a private pool. You deserve nothing less.â
Melissa averts her eyes and slips past you to the sink. She fishes a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water. She doesnât drink; only watches the surface without saying a word.
âMelissa?â you ask.
Her cheeks are thinly flushed and she wonât look at you.
âHey,â you say and take a step to close the distance. âAre you okay? Did I say something?â
âNo,â Melissa says weakly. Her eyes flit from you to every corner of the room and then back again. âThatâs not it, Iâm sorry.â
You close the distance, your hips bumping together, and take her hand into yours. âWhatâs going on?â
Melissa watches you, conflict carved into her teeth as they gnaw at her lower lip. She puts the glass down and takes a deep breath.
âYouâll think itâs stupid,â she says, and thereâs the faint tremor of a laugh in her voice, an attempt at levity to keep the long claws of something serious away from the conversation.
âWhy?â
âBecause it is.â
You frown. âI highly doubt that.â
Melissa stands in silence for a moment and you wait, nearly breathless, until she finally looks up; right past you and out the window into the brewing storm.
âWhen you say stuff like that,â she says, slower than usual, like sheâs figuring out the words as she goes, âI⌠I like it.â
Itâs an admission of the obvious, the most basic instinct of any person: to desire approval, and she makes it sound like sheâs turning herself in for manslaughter.
You take care to keep your voice calm as you say, âWhy would I think thatâs stupid?â
âI mean,â she says and then pauses for a breath, âI mean I really, really like it.â
You stare at her, confused. The gears in your head turn and turn, and her words roll themselves over, back to front and inside out, until finally, like striking a match, it hits you.
âOh.â
You remember, then, a moment from two weeks ago, when you were picking Melissa up from work.
You had been standing by the door with your phone in hand, waiting while she packed up, when someone had knocked and gone in; a woman of around 30, probably a parent to one of the students.
You really tried not to eavesdrop, but you were curious; it would be interesting to see Melissa in action instead of hearing a story over dinner, afterwards.
Besides, your stomach was growling and Melissa had promised you a double halloumi burger on the way back and you really just wanted to get going. They wouldnât take long, right? Better that youâre close by.
The conversation had, luckily, been short, and mostly concerned a Jenna â how sheâd be needing a little help catching up once she got back to school after her grandmotherâs funeral.
âThank you so much, Ms. Schemmenti,â the woman had said. âI donât know what weâd do without you.â
âReally, itâs all right. Donât worry about it.â
âI mean it.â Thereâd been rustling, and a slightly panicked grunt. Melissa mustâve been caught in a hug. âGood girls like you are few and far between. Weâre lucky you happen to be so close by.â
After that the woman had left, even nodded you goodbye as she went. A few minutes later, Melissa had appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath and her eyes out of focus.
Sheâd dragged you to your car by the wrist and fucked you silly in the Burger King bathroom.
The kettleâs whistle rips you back into the present like an air raid siren.
Melissa watches you, shoulders squared with tension, an anxious frown strewn across her face. She clears her throat and takes an unsteady step back.
âI knew this was a shit idea,â she says and drops her gaze to the floor. She retreats further, unsure of where to put her hands as they card through her hair, skim her pockets and then finally settle, crossed in front of her like a door slammed into your face. âForget it, okay. We can pretend this never happened andââ
âNo, wait.â
She freezes, one foot over the threshold. You take the screaming kettle off the stove calmly, walk to her in silence and take her face in your hands, your grip firm enough to keep her from looking away.
âYou are gorgeous,â you whisper. Melissa follows as you lead her back into the kitchen, one clumsy step at a time. âEvery time you smile I think âThis is it, this is how Iâm going to goâ. My heart stops and then you laugh, and it starts right back up again.â
Melissaâs back hits the fridge door, and you hear a souvenir magnet clatter against the floor.
âYou are a goddess in leather, okay? The jacket and the pants together â Jesus Christ, Melissa.â
Sheâs very quiet and very still, save for her breathing, short and nearly panicked. The way she stares at you briefly makes you wonder if youâre doing the right thing, if youâre stepping over a line she wasnât fully ready to cross, but then the corners of her mouth tip slightly upwards, and you know you have to keep going.
âYouâre doing so well, honey. This is new to you and youâre scared and a little embarrassed, but youâre being so brave, so attentive and so, so good.â
You kiss her lips once, quick and soft as a feather.
âYouâre my good girl, Melissa.â
The earth might as well have split in half with how rapidly the atmosphere changes; something invisible snaps as Melissa takes you by the hair and kisses you breathless.
Her lips are ravenous as she trails a line of sharp, hungry kisses down your neck and with one swift twist itâs your back against the fridge, your head bumping against holiday photos and last weekâs grocery list, her leg nudged between yours.
âPlease donât stop,â Melissa whispers and then her teeth pierce the skin right above your collarbone, straddling the edge of just enough and too much. It pulls a thin whine from you, a sound she knows and translates into please dear god keep going.
âYouâre being so good, honey.â Itâs a struggle, getting a single word out while her hand tears at the buttons of your shirt. âI canât wait to feel you inside me.â
Melissaâs breath hitches like sheâs choking, and the shirt flies open. Your bra is easily pulled out of the way and without warning, Melissaâs lips close around your nipple to gently nibble at it.
She approaches you the same way she would an old recipe; with fierce, familiar warmth, her hands lost in her profound knowledge of your every curve and crevice. She draws a host of gasps from you, hidden into the top of her head as you kiss her hair and hold her even tighter.
Melissa releases your nipple and gives it a slow kiss goodbye, only to nip a line of stinging marks down your ribs, all the way to the top of your jeans. She pauses to dig through her back pocket and pulls out a small, threadbare hair tie.
âJust a second,â she whispers, and sweeps her hair up into a frenzied ponytail. âYou ready?â
You smile down at her and brush her cheek with the backs of your fingers. âFor you? Always.â
The button of your jeans pops open, the zipper is unzipped, and Melissa pulls everything down with two firm tugs. She rubs her nose against the soft inside of your thigh, breathing slowly and deliberately as she draws out every second to its limit, until youâre close to begging for something, anything.
She looks up and the light hits her eyes just right, makes them come alive like a forest pool dappled with afternoon sunlight, and youâre left breathless.
âI love you,â you say.
Melissa smiles and leans in.
A sob breaks free of your throat and echoes around the room, seeps so deep into the walls that you know youâll still hear it two weeks from now. Melissa doesnât treat you to anything but the tip of her tongue, light and barely there, and it is too little and too much at the same time, an impossible sensation she burns right into your nerves.
Melissa presses her hands against the fridge for support and shoves a row of magnets out of the way; the pictures they were holding fly to the floor in a chaotic flurry. She cranes her neck and presses the flat of her tongue against you, and it hits you like a brick, so much after so little.
âYou feel so good, honey,â you say between rough breaths. âSo, so good.â
Like sheâs waiting for it, the tips of her fingers go scaling past your knee and up your thigh, until theyâre resting lightly on your pubic bone. She draws a thin line down, down, down until her index finger is gently pressed against velvety heat, and then stops, her head tilted upwards to watch you, patiently waiting.
âPlease,â you sigh, âI needââ
Melissa slips two fingers inside, knuckle by knuckle, and drags your trembling whine out, inch by inch. Her rhythm is slow, almost nonexistent as she savors each twitch, each swallowed curse and burdened breath. She leans against you languidly, as if itâs Sunday and sheâs leafing through the morning paper, eyes closed and her cheek pressed against your hipbone.
She keeps you rooted to that feeling of home where you donât have to keep watch over how you sound or look, where the only thing that matters is that you feel safe and loved and good. The pressure of her palm on your waist, her lips, whispering affections like little prayers, her body leaning into yours like this is where you were always both meant to be; itâs all almost too much, like trying to fit lightning in a bottle.
Melissa bends her wrist and beckons. Your knees nearly buckle but she keeps you standing, her hand firmly on the curve of your hip, enough to keep you from tumbling.
âChrist,â you whisper, fuel to the fire. Melissaâs fingers sink until her palm is flush against your skin and she settles into a steady beat, a tempo she reads from your disjointed cries and frantic gasps.
Her hair is slipping out of the tie and you notice a strip of gray, missed by her hairdresser, slide down the slope of her neck and settle on her shoulder. Itâs like an ornament, a spot of moss growing on the side of a tree, a flourish bestowed for a life well lived.
âYouâre the most beautiful person Iâve ever seen,â slips out of your mouth before youâve fully even finished thinking it. Melissa flushes down to the tips of her ears and dips her head back between your thighs, her tongue deft and eager. A shudder shakes your body and you feel yourself drip; you can already imagine Melissaâs hand slick, the sleeve of her shirt soaked.
She pushes deeper and you groan, a garbled, ecstatic sound. Words are almost beyond you at this point, scattered into the wind like leaves in winter, but you still manage to say, âMelissa, my Melissa. You feel soââ A breath, starving and coarse. âJesus.â
You can hear Melissaâs unsaid âJust meâ, can imagine yourself swatting her arm because it is stupid and silly and it makes you laugh in a way that very few things ever have.
Melissa opens her eyes and looks at you, a sloppy smile on her lips and her mascara stained on the left side. She thrusts, pulls you apart like a spool of string even when her wrist must be burning, her jaw sore and strained, but she gives you that small sacrifice in exchange for this, for you, unfurling under her touch.
âHoney, Iâm going toââ Her fingers curl and you feel the twitch all the way in your spine. âMelissaââ
She pulls her face back an inch, jaw glistening and lipstick staining her chin. Wind brushes against the windows with a gentle rumble that clatters the windows in their panes. Melissa catches her breath for only a moment, and then says, âI love you too.â
Itâs almost enough on its own.
She falls back into you like sheâs drawn by gravity and pushes you to a point where you canât even think anymore. Her movements are fidgety, impatient; she loses herself in the what, where and how of you, and leaves any notions of composure rotting in the dust.
You grind into her palm right as Melissa tips her head and twists her tongue, gives you everything she possibly has to give and the world disappears into a spinning black hole with you at the center, the solitary singularity that ruptures like a thousand dying suns. You arch your spine and dig in your heels, begging the universe for something to hold onto, and there she is: Melissa Ann Schemmenti with her hand persisting in yours, exactly where you need her.
âI love you,â you cry and the tears come falling, and you let them, despite the tide of embarrassment that follows. âMelissa, I love you, I love you, I love you, youââ
Your knees finally give out and you nearly crash to the floor, but she holds you tight and firm the whole way down. She checks that your back is safely laid against the fridge before pulling her fingers out, drawing out one last shiver from your depleted body.
You notice a faint sheen of tears in her eyes as well, and of all things, a laugh bubbles up from your throat, a wobbly titter that seems to be the only way your body can attempt to parse the tidal wave of emotion still swirling inside.
Melissa smiles at you and then gets off her knees with a hefty âOwâ. With her back against the drawers, she pats her open lap and you slump onto her thighs.
Thunder rolls somewhere far above, and the rain falls thicker. You exhale, let your eyelids grow heavy, and you listen. The sky roars and under its boundless weight the trees bow and creak, the wooden swing in the backyard groans in its attempts to stay in its place, and the neighborâs dog barks ferociously until itâs dragged inside. Above it all is Melissaâs breathing, still slightly labored. It feels like home at its most exposed: the same as her soft snores in the middle of the night, a peal of laughter from the living room, the smell of breakfast when youâre barely awake yet.
Melissa pulls your hair out of your face and starts brushing her fingers through it, tenderly untangling any knots she finds. She sniffs once, and you kiss the top of her thigh.
âWhat just happened?â she asks, almost childishly, honestly lost.
You turn your head to look at her. âI would say the best sex of my life, but I think you still have a few surprises in you.â
Melissa laughs softly under her breath. âThanks for listeninâ to me.â
âOf course,â you say. âThank you for talking to me. Iâm so proud of you.â
Her jovial expression very quickly turns a little sour, and she purses her lips.
âYou need to tone it down because I canât go again yet.â She whistles between her teeth. âI havenât wanted a smoke in six years, but honestly, now would be a really good time.â
âDonât you dare,â you mutter.
âIâm just sayinâ.â
You chuckle and put your head back down. Your eye is drawn to the mess on the floor: the magnets, the pictures, the wood thatâs going to get sticky soon.
âWe should probably clean up,â you say. Melissa sighs.
âYeah.â She pats your shoulder and you pull your jeans back up. The zipper gives you some trouble, trembling fingers and all, but you manage to get yourself clothed in a reasonable amount of time. You rise from the floor and your right knee lets out a little pop as you get back on your feet.
Melissa, however, braces her hands against the floor, and then stops with a sharp hiss and a hand on her spine.
âShit, my back, can youââ
âOf course,â you say, and slide your arms under hers. âReady?â
You hold her by the shoulders while she wraps herself around you.
âOne, two, three.â
You heave yourselves to your feet, but even when sheâs securely standing, she doesnât let go. Her hand is twisted into the back of your shirt and her face lies in the crook of your neck. You feel her lips softly trembling, her breathing coming in and out in small uneven hiccups.
âI love you so much,â she whispers.
You kiss the top of her head. âI love you too.â
You havenât asked the universe for much, and have received even less; but for this one thing you will keep thanking the powers that be, for as long as you possibly can.
Character: 13th DoctorÂ
Word count: 3,571
Warnings: Mild violence, Big insects
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: T
Description: The sky is darkening. Around you the trees only seem to grow taller as their oppressive shadows stretch over frost-covered grass. The forest is as silent as can be when a storm is coming: animals looking for holes to crawl back to, branches brushing against each other in the wind, and your own stuttering breath as the air thickens with the promise of rain.
--
No Doctor and no TARDIS, you find yourself lost in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one to turn to. Pray the Doctor finds you in time.
A/N: This was originally posted on my DW blog a few years ago so I gave it a new coat of paint and here we are!
---------
There are three things, the Doctor had said, that you ought to remember about Paroxus V. One: the food isnât fit for a human. You eat it, you die. Hands to yourself. Two: it is infinitely easy to get lost. Stay together. Three: at night, it gets very, very cold.
The sky is darkening. Around you the trees only seem to grow taller as their oppressive shadows stretch over frost-covered grass. The forest is as silent as can be when a storm is coming: animals looking for holes to crawl back to, branches brushing against each other in the wind, and your own stuttering breath as the air thickens with the promise of rain.
Cold sneaks through your light jacket and you shiver. The tree you huddle up against is thick enough to pass for shelter; at least when you drag your knees to your chest and curl up into a ball. Itâs better than nothing. You flex your trembling fingers and the skin over your knuckles breaks, revealing tiny beads of blood. You blow into your palms and rub them together. The relief is brief, and is immediately taken away by a chilling gust of wind.
Itâs been hours now. Seconds of gasping, frightened breaths had stretched into minutes, into hours, and now the sky was turning black. No sign of the Doctor, no wheezing groan from the TARDIS, nothing. Not even a peep. She might be terrible at parking but this is pushing it.
Admittedly, it was you who had let go of her hand, you who ran off in a panic, you who had wandered further into the dark and brooding trees because you swore youâd seen her coat in the distance. Explicit instruction, as it turns out, means very little when your amygdala is screaming at you to run.
Something cracks in the distance.
You force yourself to stay very, very still, and turn your head to peek past the tree sheltering you. Something stirs the tall grass and the trampled wildflowers a good ten feet away from you. An acrid stench floats in your direction, and nearly sends you into a violent coughing fit. You gag at the sharp, acidic stench, and swiftly wipe your watering eyes. The wind carries heavy, skittering footsteps to your ears, like dozens of legs crawling in the foliage.
A long, arching back, covered in faintly glimmering plating, rises from the grass and stretches into its full height. Hundreds of feet line the body on both sides. On top of its head are two antennae, both the size of your arm.
Your stomach lurches, and acid rises into the back of your mouth. Your hands, placed on the trunk for stability, claw into the bark hard enough to leave small crescent-shaped dents. That thing is massive, big enough to eat you whole.
What would the Doctor do?
Be benevolent. Be kind. Things she keeps telling you and the unfortunate souls you run into; both easier said after a frightening adventure, instead of right now, deep into the hunting grounds of a monstrous centipede.
But in the end it doesnât matter, because youâre not the Doctor. Youâre a human, average in most aspects, equipped with one human heart and one human brain, both of which are on their knees, pleading at you to run or hide.
So far, thatâs just instinct. Paleolithic age knowledge overriding your brain to keep you safe. The centipede has made no move to hurt you. It might not even be carnivorous, for all you know.
Out of your view, scampering steps pound against hard dirt, and something emerges from the long grass. A furry animal, quite like a rabbit, shoots into view.
The centipede flies into action. It rises further up and arches forward, spewing a foul, pulpy mucus that coats the rabbit, trapping it where it stands. It shrieks in pain, but the sound is drowned out by hundreds of feet approaching, a whine when the centipede throws the rabbit into the air, and a revolting crunch of bones cracking as it finishes its meal. It only takes a moment; ten, fifteen seconds at most.
Bile burns your throat, and you fear youâll retch; sounds and motions you cannot afford right now. You sneak back behind the tree and you breathe, in and out, silent and slow as you can. Your eyes keep watering but you donât dare even blink.
Grass shudders, and the centipede crawls to your right. Your heart seizes in your chest, and vivid images of your arms being torn from your person attack your vision.
The sound recedes. Further and further, until you can barely hear it anymore. You look up, and catch a glimpse of the first stars of the night through criss-crossing tree branches.
You count to twenty, savor each number like one of them might magic you away from here, and stop on your favorite one for a good long while. Maybe it has some luck left in it, who knows.
Silence.
You sigh in relief, and the sound is unsteady, jittery, like a butterfly struggling to take flight. It jerks in your chest, a persistent hiccup that threatens to transform into panicked hyperventilation, but you donât have the time. You squeeze your eyes shut and wipe the tears that come falling. One long, grounding breath, and then you finally dare to take a peek past the tree.
Empty, as far as the eye can see. Night has finally fallen, and everything past fifteen feet turns into a dark, dangerous jumble of unidentifiable, vaguely threatening shapes. You crane your neck to look past the long grass, in the direction of the centipede, but you canât see anything. The creature could be hiding, biding its time until you make a run for it to gobble you up like a sausage puff, but you have to take that chance. Itâs now or never.
You bite into your own cheek hard enough to draw blood, and take your first step. You wait; a moment of anticipatory stillness as your shoe settles firmly into the dirt.
The woods remain silent.
You take another step, and another, each one heavier and more hurried than the last, until you settle into a jog; light enough to hopefully keep you unheard, but quick enough to get you the hell out of here. Branches snag on your clothes, your hair, as if the forest is trying to keep you in its clutches.
Fifteen minutes you trudge through the dark until the eerie silence finally breaks. You freeze, eyes darting over your surroundings in search of a rock, a tree, anything to hide behind. Before you can find any such thing, though, the sound repeats itself.
A voice. This far away, you canât recognize the owner, but god, it doesnât matter; thereâs someone out here beside you and youâd rather die than let that miracle go. You stand on your toes and strain your ears, praying silently for that someone to wait, to please just wait; youâre here, right here, and they canât be too far off, if theyâd only justâ
There it is again. Faint, but growing closer. You laugh, unable to entirely contain the sound and keep it under your breath. The call comes one more time, and you turn to its direction: off the path and even deeper into the woods.
You step over the bushes and push your way past the thicket, ripping handfuls of leaves off their branches in your desperation to move, move, move. Your feet pound against the ground as you finally let yourself run. The trees grow thicker the further you go, but even they canât muffle the sound: a woman, calling for... for you?
With every step the call gets closer, gets clearer, and it is your name; theyâve finally found you, sheâs found you, the Doctor is here and if you could just move faster in this blasted forest, you might catch her before she thinks youâre gone, and then youâre really, properly dead.
You want to call her name, scream for help, but the image of the rabbit disappearing down the centipedeâs throat keeps your mouth firmly shut. You canât risk it. If only there was a faster way to get toâ
Your foot doesnât bounce off the ground. It plunges into the foliage and you follow suit. You roll down the hill face first, sharp stones tearing your clothes and biting into skin, the smaller ones lodging themselves into your flesh. The landing is hard; the grass covering the ground offers very little in the sense of cushioning. When the world stops spinning, your hands fly to your knee to ease the sharp pain crackling there. Sand glitters in the wound right under your kneecap, and sticky, fresh blood lingers on your fingers when you pry them away.
You gently try to move your leg, but cry out, tears stinging your eyes. Thereâs no way youâre going anywhere like this. You try to even your breath, ears strained again as you try to listen past your heart hammering in your chest.
The voice has gone quiet, but in its stead the earth groans above you. You hear crawling; hundreds of little feet carrying a thick, armored body across frosty grass that crackles and snaps like clacking teeth. The tall grass shifts above you and antennae peek through, followed by a head, and you finally get a glimpse at the centipedeâs open maw.
Rows of miniscule, needle-sharp teeth ring its circular mouth as deep as you can see. Itâs like the creature has several round jaws that all open and close in their own perplexing rhythm. Itâs almost hypnotizing.
Dirt and grass rain down as the centipede crawls down the hill and stops right at your feet. You heave panicked breaths as it rises to its full height and shrieks; a high-pitched, serrated sound, followed by dark spittle that splashes in all directions. You throw your arms in front of your face and howl as it burns through your jacket, your shirt, and leaves a sizzling patch of scorched skin. You gasp and struggle to wrap your head around the feeling of dead nerves and bubbling, weeping skin.
The centipede crawls closer, draws itself further up, and you know whatâs coming. A heave, a brief moment of flight, and your flesh torn and rended between thousands of little teeth.
You sink further into the ground, a last ditch effort to hide, to disappear and turn up back home, on asphalt and a city too well-populated and polluted to house anything like the creature in front of you. You look up; one final glimpse of the stars that lured the lot of you on this planet in the first place, and sure enough, you see them. Constellations the local children could name in their sleep, lone planets shining brighter than the rest, and satellites lazily circling the planet on their calculated courses. Itâs shocking how little empty space there is on this foreign sky.
You close your eyes.
A high-pitched mechanical whine; a screwdriver pushed past its limit. Panicked voices. Shouting. The centipedeâs screech, and a long, heavy body escaping into the thicket. Hurried boots on loose dirt.
A light shines over your face, and you wince. Too bright. Someone tries to pull your arms away from your face but you cry out, and the touch is swiftly withdrawn.
âChrist,â someone whispers, further away.
A hand caresses your cheek and a soft line is drawn across your cheekbone.
âItâs all right.â Northern accent. âThe Mexvogel is gone. Off to find easier prey. Youâre safe.â
You pry your eyes open. Golden hair, hazel eyes, and a brow drawn in worry; thereâs that crease between them, the one Yaz always teases her about. The Doctorâs whole face sheens with sweat and dirt, and her clothes are speckled with grime.
Your gaze is drawn to movement in your periphery: Yaz, Graham and Ryan, all rushing towards you.
âDid you see the size of that thing?â Graham asks. âIâve only ever seen one in my mateâs flat, in Bristol. It were the size of my finger, though. Not my whole house.â
âCan you sit?â The Doctor offers you her hand as she speaks. You try to take it, but moving only elicits a shock of pain, universally felt. The Doctorâs fingers press against your cheek, and when she draws back, theyâre stained with blood.
 âTook a nasty fall, you did. I couldâa sworn Mexvogel were extinct by now, especially after the hunt in 3319, but I guess thereâs still stragglers. Nasty buggers.â
She takes something from her pocket: a small flashlight, clicked awake to shine directly into your eyes. You try to look away, but the Doctor holds your jaw tightly in her hand. No escape.
âLooks alright,â she mutters, and to your relief, puts the light back in her pocket. âSay something.â
It takes a moment to make sense of the words, the sentences, to parse each one from the next and assign bouncing, meaningless letters meaning; your thoughts are simultaneously scattered in the wind and one big, coagulated jumble.
The Doctorâs face falls.
âCould be concussion,â she says. âBest get you to the TARDIS. Try to stand, if you can.â
You lean forwards and try to shift weight into your legs, but the second you put pressure on your knee you yelp and fall back to the ground. The Doctor frowns, and shares a concerned look with Yaz. They crouch beside you, and your arms are carefully placed over their shoulders.
âReady?â The Doctor asks, and thereâs a small smile on her face, a wrinkle at the corner of her eye; you will be okay. Sheâll take care of it. Itâs what she does.
They heave you to your feet, hands pressed against your back, support to take weight away from your arms. You take a small step, barely move your foot at all, but grind your teeth like whetstone all the same.
âIâŚâ you start, but the words are too far, too much of a mess.
âShit,â Yaz says under her breath. âWhat do we do?â
The Doctor looks at you quietly for a moment, and then turns to Yaz. âLet go.â
Yazâs brow shoots to her hairline, but the look the Doctor gives keeps her from questioning orders.
âAlright, alright,â Yaz says, and delicately lets you lean fully against the Doctor. She bends down, puts one arm behind your knees and slides the other around your back.
âOn three,â she mutters, and takes a breath. âOne, twoââ
You wail when she lifts you off your feet, every scrape, burn and bruise begging you to stop, to lie down and die so they can find peace.
The Doctor waits for a moment, and eventually your breath calms, a tear rolls down your cheek, and your head lolls against her chest. The beat of her hearts is fast but steady, their b-bmp b-bmp a sturdy enough anchor to keep you in this world for a small while yet.
âThis wonât be entirely painless,â she warns you. âIâll be jostling you around a bit. But the TARDIS isnât parked far. You ready?â
She looks you in the eyes, watches for a moment, and thereâs that wrinkle again; right between her eyebrows, deep like a crevasse, and probably with just as many worries buried inside.
You nod.
Logically, the trek canât have been more than a few hundred feet at most, but god, if it doesnât feel like hours, days of aching muscles and lacerated skin. The Doctor holds you close to her chest, and you take solace in her warmth, try to focus on her heart, her breath, anything to take you away from the misery of your body.
By the time you see the TARDIS, more worn than the time youâd left â her paint chipped and her wood scratched â youâre barely conscious anymore. The dots in your vision grow into a dark expanse that encompasses most of your vision, and Ryan and Yaz sound like theyâre bickering beyond a thick, padded wall.
The moment The Doctor crosses the threshold, youâre out.
You wake up to a great, throbbing headache. Your eyelids feel like theyâre stuffed with cotton as you open them to the soft lamplight of your bedroom. Youâre stuffed under every blanket in the house, built up to an impressive stack. Music is playing, though you donât recognize the song.
You take a deep breath, and try to move. A groan and a wave of nausea warn you against making a second attempt.
âI wouldnât do that if I were you.â
You slowly turn your head despite the soft ache beneath your temples and find the Doctor sitting by your bedside in your rickety yellow chair, the one with the torn cushion. Sheâs cross-legged and in her hands are a cup of tea and a book you havenât seen before. Sheâs frowning.
âSorry,â you say, and try to catch her eye. She is determined to only stare at the yellowed, worn down page.
âYouâre lucky, you know,â she says. Thereâs an edge in her voice, a silent anger she seems reluctant to voice. She takes a sip, and turns the page. âMost people end up in shreds if they run into a Mexvogel.â
Your lip curls. âI didnât exactly intend for this to happen, thanks.â
The Doctorâs grip around the cup tightens. âCouldâve fooled me.â
Your mouth drops open, and you scoff. âYou could at least look at me if youâre going to say something like that.â
The Doctor takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and sighs. She snaps the book shut and drops it on the floor next to her. The thud is soft against your ragged carpet.
This time she looks you deep in the eye, unblinking and unflinching as she says, âYou could have died.â
âI didnât,â you say, and find your eye-contact slipping despite your best efforts. The Doctorâs face thunders with the storm gathering inside her, and youâre on a direct course into the middle.
âYou have no idea,â The Doctor says, her voice growing tighter, louder. âWe got back to the TARDIS and you were gone, couldnât find you anywhere. We asked everyone, ran around for hours, and finally some kids had seen you stumble into the bloody woods.â
Tears threaten to blur your vision, and you canât even lift your arms enough to wipe them away.
âThank the stars I have your biopattern saved in the TARDISâs memory or we wouldâve never found you in there.â Her voice thickens and wavers. âWhy would you go in there?â
You unclench your jaw and sniff. âThought I saw you.â
âWhere?â she asks, and rests her forehead against her palms.
âJust⌠There. Running. Do you think Iâd just wander in there for the sake of it? See the sights?â
Itâs the Doctorâs turn to go quiet, to look away and rub her temples as she grimaces. âNo, Iââ
âYouâre an arse,â you say. The Doctor breathes for a few quiet moments and looks out the window. A group of teens is passing by, horribly drunk. One of them stumbles, and almost falls over, but her friend catches her by the waist.
âIâm sorry,â the Doctor whispers. âYou donât deserve this, Iâ I was so worried. You humans can be so unpredictable; centuries Iâve spent on this planet and I still canât figure out what the lot of you are thinking, sometimes.â
âIâm here,â you say. âIâm safe.â
âYou couldâveââ
âI didnât.â
She watches you, curiously. Her eyes are red-rimmed and the bags underneath are so purple they look painted on. She heaves a sigh, and places her hand by your cheek on the pillow.
âMay Iââ
âYes,â you whisper, and she cradles your face in her palm. Her hand is warm where it held the teacup, and you smile softly into it. âHow long until I get to leave the bed?â
âIf it were up to me? A week.â The Doctor sighs. âBut youâre too stubborn. Three days.â
You groan.
âMinimum. No strenuous activity of any kind, you hear me? Yaz will stay here with you.â
Sadness pinches your heart. âAre you going somewhere?â
The Doctor looks exhausted. The way her eyes are half-closed, her mouth drawn into a tight line, she should be stuck in bed just as much as you.
âI have to,â she says, her voice crackling as if sheâd just woken. âItâs personal.â
You wish she didnât do this. The secrets, the vague destinations, the places sheâs not ready to show you yet. This is the anxious Doctor, the one that needs to keep her heart to herself.
âYouâll come visit me, at least?â you ask her, hopeful. âIf I have to be stuck here, at least come show your face a few times. Make it worth it.â
She smiles, and her eyes glow in the soft light, their color shifting into a luscious light brown as she leans forward, her hair casting a shadow over her face.
ââCourse,â she murmurs and picks up the book. This time you get a good look at the cover: two women embracing, topless, on a ship. One of them is wearing a big, poofy gown, and the other is dressed in gaudy pirate apparel.
âWhatâs that youâre reading?â you ask her, and she lights up like an industrial grade flashlight.
âNow this,â she says, and lifts the book up so you can see properly, âis the height of Delos VI literature. Top seller round their galaxy. Canât go anywhere without seeing at least one.â
âWhatâs it about?â
The Doctor stops, her mouth slightly open. She bites her tongue and scans the room with excessive detail, eyes flitting from corner to lamp to desk to corner.
âItâs, uh.â She drums her fingers on the cover.
âYeah?â
âSee, Iâm not sure youâll appreciate it the way youâre supposed to,â she starts, âbecause erotica with telekinetic themes and multiple realities isnât a thing on Earth yet, and youâll get there, I know, but see, itâs not happening right now, so you donât have the perspective of a multiversal encounter to really give it the depth thatââ
âItâs porn?â
âWell, technically yes, butââ
âRead it for me?â
She stops, entirely, down to the tips of her fidgety fingers. Her eyes slowly drift to you. âYou want me to read it?â
âI do,â you croak, too worn out to speak anymore. She gives you a look, the kind that suspicious dog owners have if their beloved pets have something in their mouths.
âAlright then,â she says, and cracks the book open. âIn the previous chapterâŚâ
You try to listen. You really, really do, but the Doctor narrates so softly, and the beginning paragraph is so abysmally bad you automatically tune her out. The last thing you remember before nodding off is her hand reaching under the blankets to take yours, her thumb running over your bruised knuckles slowly, taking in every ridge and bump of bone.
You wonder how you ever got this lucky.
She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and gives her shoulders a roll, good enough to make her upper back pop
Once sheâs sure she wonât dip right back to sleep, she turns to face you.
She marvels at your face for a second in the dawn light, at the strip of sun sneaking past the curtains and onto the curve of your jaw.
Gorgeous.
She brushes an eyelash off your cheek and kisses your forehead.
Your particularly potent snoring makes Melissa instinctually look into the camera, only for her to pause. Theyâre not there.
For once she has a moment of peace, far away from under the lens.
Work calls, regardless.
âCâmon,â she says. âWe gotta get going.â
You bat her off and turn to face the other way.
âOkay,â she mutters, and snatches you into a bear-hug, nearly sweeping both of you clean off the bed.
You finally wake up, your heart racing, fingers curled around the bedframe in a death grip.
âMorning,â Melissa says into your ear. She kisses your temple and then lays her head back on the pillow.
âDid I miss the alarm?â you ask.
âNo.â Melissa rubs her nose into the back of your neck, hoping sheâll still remember the feeling, the scent, the morning softness of you all the way to the afternoon.
âWhy the near-death experience, then?â
Melissa scoffs. âI did not come even close to killing you. Youâd know if I tried.â
You groan and try to turn, but sheâs holding you like a bowl of her motherâs ziti, tight and snug.
âI thought we were supposed to get going.â
âYeah, yeah,â Melissa says. âJust a couple minutes.â
She brushes your hair with her fingers, nails scraping against your scalp.
You sink deeper into her and try to imprint every curve and crevice into memory.
Though you canât move an inch, you manage to reach your hand to brush the side of her thigh, the skin soft and adorned with stretch marks.
Scars and blemishes; the imperfections that make up Melissa Schemmenti.
Beyond beautiful.
Another alarm rings, the one you asked her to set up precisely if this happened.
âDo we really have to go?â you ask, half-lost in the feeling of her.
Melissa sighs into your back, and gives your neck one last kiss.
âYeah.â
She peels herself off you and you moan softly at the loss of contact.
Melissa pauses.
âYou keep those noises to yourself, honey.â
You crane your neck to look at her, lazily posed in front of the window like sheâs Virgin Mary, blazing hair outlined by the sun in a glorious halo.
Breathtaking.
âWhy?â you ask.
She kisses the corner of your mouth.
âWe are definitely not getting to work otherwise.â
Sheâs cast in shadow again as she slips out of bed. The sheets already feel colder.
You watch silently as she stretches her back, gives you a pointed look, and heads out into the hall.
The house comes to life with her footsteps on the parquet, the soft, enticing gurgling of the coffee maker, and the clink of dishes against her loved and worn kitchen table.
Character: Melissa Schemmenti
Word count: 3,310
Warnings: Car accidents, panic attacks, PTSD
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: T
Description: Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters.
Every single kid stops what theyâre doing.
---
Itâs never been so frightening to look out the window
âThatâs looking great, Noah!â
You smile over his shoulder, and he beams back at you before returning to his crayons.
Second graders are so easy to please.
You walk past him to get a look at everybody elseâs paper plate dinosaurs. Nathanâs is breathing fire. Tyrone gave his a little princess crown. When you asked, Jamila said hers is âa apatopasaurusâ and that she refuses any further comment.
Fantastic work, overall.
Itâs looking mighty fine outside too; the day is stretching into afternoon, and the sun blazes into the art room, etching on the walls the shadows of the easter bunnies the first graders had made last week.
The clock is slowly ticking towards two, and youâre only fifteen minutes away from a hot McVegan â no tomato, and two hours of the Good Place.
Jamila lifts her hand as high as she can and speaks before you can even get to her.
âIâm all done,â she says. Her apatopasaurus is made of three plates instead of one, and the legs have pink pipe cleaners for both claws and a tongue. Thereâs a little tear drawn beneath its googly eye.
âOh, wow.â You turn it around and smile at the glitter glue spots drawn on the other side. âThis is really great, Jamila. You wanna help me put it on theââ
Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters.
Every single kid stops what theyâre doing.
âLook!â Samantha yells and runs to the window. Half the class follows her, crowding in a line to catch a glimpse. Godâs mercy that most of them are too short to see past the supply shelf. It offers you no such protection, though.
Just by the crossing outside, a black car is crushed against a DHL truck. Must have been going way outside the speed limit; youâre barely allowed to hit 40 out there because of the kids. The left side is completely collapsed around the truckâs hood, but you can see the driver just fine from here.
Dead.
Heâs dead.
You snap into action.
âHey, come on,â you say and start herding them away from the windows. âThe ambulance guys will handle it, okay? Letâs get back to work.â
Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, like youâre speaking into a bottomless tunnel. The kids donât seem to hear you either. More likely theyâre just not listening because theyâre eight-year-olds and most of them havenât had time to even think about death yet.
They havenât been to a funeral on a perfectly sunny day, just like this one.
Havenât hung upside down by their seatbelt in a upended car.
Or seen how broken glass mangles a face.
Stop.
You blink yourself back into the here-and-now. Your knees are already beginning to feel weak, ready to buckle under the slightest strain.
Just breathe. Ten years of practiced technique, honed to perfection. Breathe.
For the kids, if not for yourself.
The minute hand on the clock ticks over to fifty-three. A few kids, the same ones who always put the watercolors back where they belong once theyâre done, were kind enough to head back to their seats, but that still leaves you with eight children glued to the glass, watching the driver get dragged out of the car. Heâs dropped onto the pavement. Someoneâs trying to resuscitate. You can tell from here that it wonât work.
âOkay, I mean it this time.â You try to cover your trembling voice, to apply the gentle authority youâd seen Barbara pull a thousand times. They donât move an inch. Maybe itâs the gulf of difference in experience, maybe itâs just Barbara being Barbara, or maybe they can tell that youâre afraid.
You sigh and peel the kids off the window one by one and escort them into their seats. Inelegant. Methodical. Your limbs function outside your jurisdiction in a world entirely of their own. When you bring your hand to hover in front of your face, it feels lightyears away, a limb puppeted without its master.
You can still feel crumbled glass embedded between the creases of your palm.
Breathe, damn it.
âWho was that guy?â Jamila asks even after youâve sat her back down by her dinosaur.
âI donât know, buddy.â You brush cardboard clippings off her shorts and onto the floor. The fabric is void of feeling under your prickling fingers. âBut Iâm sure theyâve called an ambulance. Theyâll take care of it.â
Sure enough, when you glance at the road, Janine is buzzing around the truck driver, her phone already glued to her ear.
The bell rings at last. The kids yell out in joy and their wave of conversation washes you back ashore for a second. They grab their bags, forget their plates and stickers and markers, and are out the door in record time. Theyâre so excited.
You canât tell them to slow down, to stop, even, until the commotion outside is finished. You canât do anything but stand still and listen as their voices ebb away into just an echo.
Pills. Where are your pills.
You stumble to your bag and search it with trembling, unsure hands, like fingers against a jammed car door, dipping into the seams to tear the whole thing off if you have to. You throw your keys on the table, same as your wallet, your planner, your lighter, and a handful of stray pens; all of them in a heap that slips over the edge and to the floor. You turn the whole bag inside out, but canât find the pill bottle.
Your chest is getting tighter, heavier, like the spaces between your ribs are stuffed with cotton, like youâre trapped under a ten ton truck careening off the highway uncaring of casualties.
Breathe. Remember to breathe.
You canât breathe, thatâs the whole fucking problem.
The room is empty. Your only companion is the sun, and even sheâs about to dip behind the buildings on the other side of the street.
You fall to your knees, grasping at the collar of your shirt, your fingers far too stiff, too jittery to undo one single button. You tear them open anyway. One flies under the shelf, like a body clean through the windshield. He said he didnât need the seatbelt; it was such a short trip anyway. His legs were bent wrong six times over down in the ditch.
The world becomes muffled, stuffs your ears with ringing to keep you from hearing your own scratchy, frightened heaves for air. To save you the fear. The shame. You claw at your throat, at your chest, hoping you might dig out the chunk obstructing your windpipe.
You want to scream. So much. Youâre mentally holding yourself by the shoulders, begging yourself to keep quiet. Youâre in a position of authority. A child sees you like this, itâll go down to the parents and youâre in trouble. Abbottâs in trouble. You canât afford that.
You remember the mud staining your shirt when youâd crawled out, your leg broken and your face dripping with blood. You still donât know if it was yours.
Sirens, nearby. A broken airbag. A broken neck.
Blood.
You back up against the wall and your head bangs into the bricks with a sudden jerk, though the pain is nothing, nothing compared toâ
A hand lands on your shoulder. You jump back in fright, your other arm flying to shield your face. Something hot drips down your cheek, but you canât bring your fingers up to check, canât trap yourself in that knowledge.
âWhoa, okay,â someone says. âNo sudden touching. Gotcha.â The voice sinks like a rock into deep, dark water, far off and twisted. You canât move to see who it is, whoâs come to watch you in your weakest, most undignified moment.
âIâm gonna take your hand,â they say. âThat okay?â
You nod, but the movement is stiff and thick with tension, just like the neckbrace theyâd given you, after everything. You had a rash for weeks.
Your hand is enveloped by another, the touch soft, the fingers a little cold. There are rings right above the knuckles: two of them plain bands and one with a big, sharp stone on it. You squeeze the hand hard, hard enough to make the other person groan a thick, hefty âowâ.
âOkay. Think you could try and breathe with me? Doesnât have to be perfect.â
The person doesnât wait this time. They take a deep breath, exaggerated enough for even you to hear, and then exhale, like wind in the trees on a stormy night when nobody shouldâve been driving in the first place.
Your attempt in following them is sad and broken. The air remains trapped in your throat, refusing to flow all the way into your lungs, no matter how you try to wheeze it in or out.
âGood, keep going.â
Itâs not even remotely good, not even passable, but you keep it up anyway. In and out, but itâs more like i-i-i-i-in-in-in and ooo-out-o-ooout. This doesnât deter the person sitting next to you, though. They keep their breathing even and deep, and you follow them, out of pace and rhythm in a one-sided dance where you keep crushing your mystery partnerâs toes.
âYouâre doinâ real good,â they say, and a thumb is drawn across your knuckles, soft and soothing, free of crusted blood or thick, soupy mud. âJust keep going.
Ainât no point in rushinâ it, right?â
You do as youâre told. In and out. Your pained attempts slowly start to resemble what the other person is doing, more of a mirror than a reflection in disturbed water. The locked knots in your muscles start unwinding themselves open one by one, and you suddenly find yourself sagging forwards without control.
Arms wrap around your torso and your head knocks into someoneâs clavicle instead of the floor. Youâre shifted like a living doll into a more comfortable position and your nose buries itself into the nook between the personâs neck and shoulders. You inhale a lungful of syrupy perfume and papaya shampoo.
The clock keeps ticking. The rhythm anchors you, keeps you safely here on the classroom floor where thereâs no cars, no highways, no forgotten seatbelts.
âThat any better?â
Melissa Schemmenti moves her hand to your back to draw big, smooth circles into your shirt. You manage a dazed, exhausted nod.
The classroom is swimming back into view, bit by bit, color by color. Chairs abandoned where their occupants leapt out of them, craft supplies all over the floor. Tamir forgot his backpack.
âThe kidsââ
âAre fine,â Melissa says. Her arm slides off your back and around your shoulder instead. She squeezes you tight. âJanine and Gregory were on herding duty.â
âOk,â you whisper. The clock ticks on, and your stomach dips when you read the face: ten past three.
âYou wanna talk about it?â Melissa asks.
The scenery fades in and out, transforms into the woods by the highway and back into an elementary art class in disarray. A mess, both ways. You press your knuckles into your eyes and watch the sparks.
âIâm not sure,â you say.
Melissa nods and clicks open her phone. She shoots someone a text, though you only realize to look away by the time sheâs about to write something to Janine.
âThanks, thoughâ you mumble into the crook of her neck. Your body is dipping straight past relaxed all the way into half-dead. Your fingers feel like spaghetti noodles.
Melissa huffs a laugh. âItâs no trouble.â
You sniff and wipe your cheeks. Apparently you were crying after all.
âHow did you find me?â
Melissa puts her phone back in her pocket and you can feel her jaw tighten. Sheâs thinking.
âI was coming to check on the kids because, well. You know.â She waves her free hand toward the window. âI saw you go down. Fell right off your feet. Scared me to hell, you know.â
You grimace. âSorry.â
âPssh,â she says. âLike I said. Itâs no trouble.â
You watch the splotch of sunlight, still persistently on the wall. Another hour and itâll be gone.
You start to peel yourself off of Melissa, pausing mid-movement to wait for the ringing in your ears to ease up, and lean against the wall instead. Melissa, thankfully, keeps her arm around you for support.
âI was in a car accident,â you say.
Melissaâs brow shoots to her hairline when her head whips around.
âIt was bad.â You rub your fingers together; a feeble attempt to get some feeling back into them. âI was sitting in the back and my best friend was driving. Her boyfriend was in the passenger seat.â
Deep breaths. In and out.
âThey both died.â
âJesus,â Melissa says, spits the lordâs name in a way that would make Barbara send both of you to sunday school. âIâm sorry.â
âIt was a long time ago.â
âStill.â
âYeah.â You clear your throat, hoping to buy yourself a second of time to stave off any further admission; words you know you canât keep to yourself right now but ones youâre embarrassed to admit regardless. âI canât even watch tv shows about that stuff ever since. Of course it would find me in the front yard.â You scoff. âFigures.â
Melissa sighs, soft and smooth, so unlike your own strained, barely calmed breathing. âShit.â
You canât help the smile. âYeah.â
âYou feeling any better?â she asks.
You give your neck a little roll, wiggle your fingers and your toes. âI think so. I donât think I can walk just yet, though.â
âThatâs all right. My dinner plans can wait a couple minutes.â
Footsteps draw your attention to the hall. Barbara appears in the doorway in her light brown jacket, her and Melissaâs purses both slung over her shoulder. She takes a quick look at you and then stares meaningfully at Melissa, posing a silent question.
Heat floods into your cheeks, your neck, your ears. It couldâve been Janine, couldâve been Gregory, even Jacob, but of course it has to be Barbara Howard, the singlemost composed person in the whole world, who stumbles in on you crying into Melissaâs shoulder.
Her divorce papers were recently filed, though, so if anything, sheâs probably very familiar with the feeling.
Melissa mimes âfive more minutesâ at Barbara, and thereâs a silent battle of wills between them, a conversation you couldnât even begin to understand, after which Barbara sighs with a smile on her face, bows her head and disappears back into the hall.
âYou gonna get home okay?â Melissa asks you when the sound of Barbaraâs heels has faded.
âYeah. Usually I bike, but I think Iâll walk home today. Iâll be fine.â
Melissaâs face dips into a frown as she very seriously doubts you. Thereâs no escaping that look, and it only takes you a second to start sweating. You wonder how people actually trying to fight Melissa Schemmenti arenât immediately recuded to cinders.
âI swear,â you say, and draw a cross over your heart.
Melissa smacks her lips and tilts her head as she assesses your woozy, bulldozed self. Apparently you arenât shaking that bad, because when she straightens herself, she says, âOkay. But.â
You want to groan. A good sign. Your feet are a little closer to ground again.
âYou text both me and Barb when ya get home. Is that clear?â
You lift your hand in a salute. âCrystal.â
Melissa laughs, a smoke-worn, throaty sound that pulls you another inch closer to reality.
âKeep that up and no Schemmenti leftovers for you,â she says. âCheeky little shit.â
She somehow drags a laugh out of you, short and genuine and good, and itâs not like none of this happened, but it lets you put a band-aid on the wound at least.
âI think I could try getting up now.â You try putting a little pressure on your foot, and though your leg doesnât immediately smack right back to the floor, it does tremble a significant amount. Heat crawls down your neck again as you ask,
âCould you, uhâŚâ
ââCourse.â
Melissa gets to her feet with a strained groan and a âfuck my fucking kneesâ, but manages to get herself standing. She offers you her hand and you take it, keeping your free palm firmly against the wall as she pulls you to your feet. Itâs an unsteady operation, one that leaves you dizzy and winded, and nearly back on your ass more than once.
Once youâre safely standing, Melissa gathers up the contents of your bag and hands it to you, but only once sheâs made sure that you can actually carry it. She holds you by the shoulders all the way to the hall, and doesnât let go until the door has safely clicked shut. You still keep your hand by the wall, though. Just in case.
âIâll have to come in early tomorrow to clean up,â you say with a sigh.
âDonât even think about it.â
When you look at her, Melissa is staring you down with the intensity of three suns. Whole solar systems, even. You put your hands up in surrender.
âOnly if youâre sure,â you say. It is a relief, you have to admit. Especially if you still have to run to the pharmacy to get your prescription refilled.
âDonât you worry your liâl head about it.â
She walks you all the way to the entrance, where Barbara is still waiting with a paperback book propped on Melissaâs bag.
âAll cleared up, then?â she asks.
âYup,â Melissa says. Short and sweet. Barbara doesnât ask any further question, though you doubt itâs from lack of interest. At least Melissa has a dinner story to share, if nothing else.
You all slip out the door, but Melissa stops you there. She looks you over, head to toe, her lips pursed and her hands fiddling with the strap of her purse.
âYou sure about this?â she asks. âI could give you a ride.â
You fish your keys from your bag and close your fingers around the one meant for the lock on your bike.
âIâll be okay. And Iâll text you.â
Melissa raises her brow.
âBoth of you.â
The idea of sending Barbara Howard a text of any kind outside a professional environment feels like some kind of a breach of protocol, but Barbara herself doesnât seem phased. Outward, at least.
Janine is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this.
A cool breeze slides under your thin shirt, and your arms erupt in goosebumps.
âI better get going,â you say, but canât get yourself to walk over to the bike rack just yet. Your fingernail digs into the notches of the key, and you try to figure out something to say, anything that could put into words just how much Melissa has done for you in one afternoon. In the end, you decide to go with something simple.
âThank you, Melissa.â
She looks amused, truly like sheâs done what anybody else would have. Like itâs nothing. You wonder if sheâll ever know how much it means, even if you tried to tell her.
âEh.â She shrugs. âIt was no trouble.â
How perfectly Melissa of her.
âSee you tomorrow,â you say, and with one final wave and a smile goodbye, you start heading for home.
Behind you, once youâre definitely out of range, Barbara turns to Melissa.
âWhat happened?â she asks.
Melissa watches you clear the crosswalk and waits until you disappear behind the Subway.
âIâll tell you later, hon.â She presses a kiss to Barbaraâs cheek. âFirst we need to eat. I am too fucking hungry to talk.â
âMelissa Ann Schemmenti,â Barbara gasps, âyou watch that tongue of yours.â
âDonât you worry about that, Barb.â
âIncorrigible,â Barbara mutters and heads for the car. Melissa doesnât miss the smile on her face.
Character: Rhea
Word Count: 3,332
Warnings: Magical injury, descriptions of pain
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: T
Description: Itâs a beautiful spring morning, though a smidge too early. Lady Rhea is receiving visitors, but trouble seems to have snuck in along with them. An unexpected hero rises to fight a plot to assassinate the Archbishop, willing to throw themselves on the line, their own life be damned.
A/N: i have no clue if archbishop is supposed to be capitalized or not so i just said yes and went with it. Lots of fluff at the end because I need Rhea to hold me gently
Foreign visitors again, today.
You hide your yawn behind your palm and take a good look at the people standing in the audience chamber. Guests from Arianrhod arenât all too common, and while youâre excited to see people from the farther reaches of Fodlan, the timing couldâve been better. Morning shifts were never really your thing.
Two men dressed in white and blue exchange words with Seteth, murmuring under their breaths to make sure their conversation doesnât reach unwanted ears. Despite their best attempts to hide it, their frustration comes across as obvious, rather than discreet.
The Archbishop is late.
It is well past nine oâ clock and the sun has long since risen, and yet sheâs nowhere to be seen. What could be keeping her?
Seteth looks entirely unperturbed by the situation, although to his credit, it is his job to remain calm regardless of the nature of the catastrophe. You take note of the dark circles under his eyes. It canât be easy work, keeping people, important people, on their best behavior when something goes wrong.
âWeâve travelled a long way, sir,â one of the men, the one with long hair slicked back and an oiled moustache decorating his upper lip, speaks up. His eyes look hard and unforgiving, the morning sun doing nothing to soften them.
âIâm sure you understand why weâre disappointed,â the other one says. Heâs equally dressed up, but his hair is shaved, only a short bristle covering his scalp. Seteth sighs.
âOf course, good sirs,â he says, and you can almost hear him grinding his teeth all the way from here. âI only ask for a bit of patience. The Archbishop has run into unexpected difficulties this morning, but she will be arriving any moment now.â
You frown. Unexpected difficulties? You share a look with the guard standing next to you, your superior officer, a man in his late thirties with a faint, scraggly beard, but he only shrugs.
The men huff impatiently, and make it very clear that they have no interest in being understanding. In the following silence your attention is caught by a stray sunbeam, sneaking into the room through the open window behind you, and you wonder if anyone would notice if you snuck a few inches to the left so it could warm your back instead of the stone floor.
âAh!â The man with the moustache exclaims and your head shoots up. âArchbishop, how wonderful!â
Heâs right. Lady Rhea is standing in the doorway in all her glory, the gold of her headpiece glinting in the sun like a halo. Half her face is shines with rich, brilliant yellows and oranges. Her eyes, though weighed down by exhaustion, drink up the light, absorbing the life of a brand new day, and you could almost swear sheâs glowing.
You can hear several people in the room sigh. You arenât an exception.
The Archbishop walks up to the visitors and offers Seteth a discreet nod of thanks. He bows his head in acknowledgement and takes a step back to stand beside her. The men take a deep bow.
âI thank you for your patience, my lords,â Lady Rhea says with well practiced ease, her tone a blade, honed sharp solely for the purpose of slashing at the building tension in the room. âI ask for your forgiveness; Unfortunate difficulties presented themselves prior to my arrival, but the issue has been taken care of.â
âOf course, Archbishop,â the moustached one speaks up. His oily expression makes your skin crawl. âMight we inquire about the nature of the issue?â
You canât see it, but you would swear on your life that you can hear Seteth grinding his teeth again.
âA staff problem within the castle,â Lady Rhea says smoothly, without a moment of hesitation. âNothing you need to concern yourselves with, Iâm sure.â
The men look at each other, thinly veiled excitement on their faces.
âAre you sure you donât need any assistance?â The short-haired one asks, and though the words themselves could be interpreted as innocent enough, itâs the way he says it; the sarcasm, the slippery suggestion that Lady Rhea canât be trusted to take care of things, that really makes you want to punch his teeth in.
âIt is very kind of you to ask,â Lady Rhea replies, though a well trained ear can easily pick up the tightness in her tone. She rubs her temple briefly, before returning her hand to rest in her lap. âBut the issue is under control. There is no need to worry.â She clears her expression and smiles at the men, her withering patience brushed under the carpet as easily as a dust bunny. âNow, what kind of business brings you to Garreg Mach?â
You zone out the second their discussion begins. Your attention is instead drawn to a bird outside on the windowsill, hopping from one edge to the other. Itâs a bird of summer, you note with delight, probably returning home after a long winter spent somewhere warm. It gives the window a few pecks, before suddenly taking flight and disappearing out of your view, leaving behind only clear blue sky. Thereâs not a cloud in sight, only the rising sun that beckons the rest of Garreg Mach to come admire its glory.
Itâs going to be a beautiful day.
A round of laughter pulls you back into the audience chamber. You turn your gaze forwards, blankly staring ahead at the balustrade on the upper floor, when movement catches your eye.
A guard, nervously fiddling with a satchel.
You frown. Thereâs no bag included in your uniform. Trying to get a better look at his face you squint, but from this distance itâs impossible to tell who it is.
A heavy, uncomfortable weight settles over your shoulders. You nudge your superior and when he glares at you, mouth open and ready to offer you a reprimand, you gesture at the man on the second floor. With a roll of his eyes he turns to look at the stranger, and you pray to Sothis that heâll just sigh and tell you to get back to work.
No such thing happens, though.
He watches the stranger with knitted brows and slowly, very, very slowly places his hand over the pommel of his sword.
âI take it heâs no new recruit?â you ask him in a whisper, and he grimly shakes his head.
âNever seen this guy in my life,â he murmurs. You take a shaky breath.
âWhat should we do?â
âNot alert him for starters,â he hisses at you, and you snap your mouth shut. He lifts two fingers to his brow and whips them to the direction of the suspicious man, while holding eye contact with the other guard positioned on the second floor. You can barely see her nod her head.
The stranger finishes fiddling with the bag, and pulls out a tome in plain sight, clearly visible to anyone who happens to chance a glance in his direction.
âThis guy is a terrible assassin,â you whisper to your superior, and though he looks at you disapprovingly, there is a slight twist to the corner of his mouth. He nods at the guard posted on the upper floor, and she slowly starts to sidle towards the suspicious stranger, who is having an awful lot of trouble opening the book.
âBetter be safe than sorry,â your superior says, before pretending to sneeze. You frown at him in confusion, but realize quickly that heâs got the full, undivided attention of Seteth, who is currently watching you from across the room, strategically standing so he can face you directly. Your superior nods twice, and Seteth turns towards Lady Rhea.
âArchbishop,â he says, âperhaps we ought to continue this in the advisory chamber?â
Lady Rhea doesnât falter for a second. âOf course.â
The guests, on the other hand, open their mouths to disagree, but Seteth manages to get a word in before they can start to argue.
âIâm sure your feet could use a moment of respite after such a long and arduous travel all the way from Arianrhod. Please, let us get more comfortable before proceeding.â He quiets them quickly and effectively, earning a few amicable mutters in return.
The group begins to move away at a steady pace, not too slow, but not fast enough to earn suspicion. You take a peek at the upper floor again and, to your relief, see the threat has been neutralized. Two guards have surrounded the stranger without much fuss, and the tome has been confiscated. You almost allow yourself a sigh of relief. The eyes of the entire guard in the room are glued to the silent removal of the intruder, yours included. He doesnât seem to be making much of a fuss, though.
Your brows knit together as you watch him. Thereâs no real reason for him to stay quiet, especially now that heâs been caught, so what-
Oh.
Your head whips to the direction of the advisory chamber, and the second you spot movement, your vision makes a beeline towards the stained-glass window.
A shadow moves on the other side.
You donât even stop to think. You run.
âLady Rhea!â you shout, pure instinct taking over. You know that any warning you might give is already too late, two steps behind a simple distraction that anyone should have seen coming. Your feet thunder against the floor in slow-motion, gaze frozen in horror as the window shatters, revealing a second mage with black, oozing dark energy dripping from her hands. Seteth is turning, hand reaching for a dagger but heâs too slow, Sothis, thereâs no way heâll make it. With a flick of her fingers, the assassin sends the dark spike flying towards Lady Rhea, and you pray for speed as you leap, feet taking off the ground. Your outstretched arms find purchase on Lady Rheaâs shoulders and with all your strength you push, sending her crashing to the ground along with you. The dark mass of energy pierces your shoulder, sinking into flesh like a knife into butter, and sends a wave of pulsing â no, Â crawling â agony through your body. Your mouth is open in a silent scream as you land on your side, incapable of moving. The dark energy tears into you like an invisible beast, fangs sinking into muscle and bone like theyâre paper.
Someoneâs bent over you, but your vision is going purple, a burning haze eating into your very ability to see as the magic steals its way into your brain. You breathe in gasps; terrified, high pitched whines for help thatâs not coming. A voice, severe and commanding speaks, but the words sound muddled, as if spoken from the other side of a wall. You feel stretched thin, tearing apart at the seams as holes rip into your self, your very being, and for a moment, you wonder if youâll just turn into smoke, disintegrate into thin air without the chance to say goodbye. The world outside feels freezing cold, but inside thereâs a warmth, sweet and enticing that asks you to follow it into the dark. With every heartbeat you feel like youâre being turned inside out, like your organs have been spread for show, like youâve been thrown to the wolves and theyâre fighting for the pieces of meat that still, somehow, are connected to your body.
You beg for sweet release and let yourself fade.
A light dances somewhere beyond your vision. Itâs pale: a mix of light yellows and greens, with a core of hot, unbearably bright white. The heat that you expect to be searing is only a comforting warmth, soft and gentle. For a moment you feel like youâre floating, every inch of your skin tingling slightly as the light pulses inside you, silky and smooth, like holding the hand of someone you dearly love. Something knits together, and you open your eyes.
You gasp, an inhale so deep it sends you into a coughing fit harsh enough to leave you gasping for breath. Whoever is standing by your side takes a step back, and once your breathing is even again, you take a better look at your surroundings.
Beds, dressed in white linens, cupboards brimming with herbs and potions, and shelves lining the walls, all full of medical equipment.
The infirmary.
âWelcome back.â
The voice shakes you out of your reverie and you snap your head towards it, only to immediately regret it when white-hot pain flashes behind your eyes.
âCareful.â Hands are placed on your temples, and the pain ebbs away, leaving behind only a dull echo, foggy and distant. You open your eyes again, slower this time, and thank Sothis for the dim lighting. Someone places a cup of water in your hands and you crane your neck to offer a word of thanks, only to pause, mouth open in shock.
âArchbishop!â Your voice is hoarse, creaky like an old and forgotten door. You stare at Lady Rhea, wide eyed and confused. She laughs softly.
âGood morning,â she says, and feels your forehead. âYou seem to be recovering well.â
âIâ â you start, but Lady Rhea lifts the cup in your hands to your lips before you can continue.
âDrink.â She follows her command with a stern look that you donât dare defy. The water feels heavenly as it goes down your throat, and you heave a satisfied sigh when youâre done.
âThank you,â you say. âBut - with all due respect - my lady, what are doing here?â
Lady Rhea sets the cup on the nightstand and places her hands over your shoulder, hovering only inches above your skin. She radiates warmth, like a fire in the hearth after a long, rainy day.
âYou saved my life.â Her hands begin to glow with the same light you felt before, and the ache settled in your shoulder abates, fading into a mere memory. âI felt it only fitting that I do the same for you.â
âOh,â you say, color pooling in your cheeks. Lady Rhea shines the light over your bicep, your elbow, your forearm, and finally the back of your hand. You think back to the events of the morning, the fake intruder, the assassin, and-
âWait!â
Lady Rhea immediately withdraws her hands and examines you, eyes flitting from one place to the next with dizzying speed. âDid I hurt you?â
Your blush deepens, and you clear your throat. âIâ Iâm sorry, I didnât mean to frighten you. I justâ What happened to the attacker?â
âAh,â Lady Rhea says, her shoulders relaxing, and resumes her ministrations. âAfter you interrupted her plan, she was swiftly caught and taken in. Sheâs currently in the dungeons.â She takes your hand in hers and checks that your fingers work properly, bending each knuckle one by one. âYouâre perfectly safe now.â
You let yourself sit back and observe as she feels your palm, making sure thereâs no damage on the inside either. Her hands are so soft, like the wings of a dove. You wish she didnât have to stop.
Your whole face takes on the color of a beet. Lady Rhea glances at you, curious, but keeps working.
âYou seem flustered by my presence,â Lady Rhea says, keeping her eyes focused on your fingers. You briefly wonder what it would feel like if she kissed one of them.
You clear your throat, hoping it will clear your head as well. âI think anybody would be, my lady. Itâs not everyday the Archbishop herself spends an afternoon by your bedside.â
Lady Rhea chuckles. You can see little crowâs feet in the corners of her eyes when she smiles, small reminders of all the laughter in her life. You find yourself wishing there could be more of it. If only you could just pluck joy from the heavens and offer it to her, the world would be a better place.
âI suppose not,â she says. Her hands stop moving, and she looks at you suddenly, brow furrowed in concern. âYouâre not uncomfortable, are you?â
âWith you being here?â you ask. You canât quite meet her eyes. âItâs not that, my lady. Iâm just nervous. Youâre the Archbishop, after all.â
You expect Lady Rhea to relax, for some of the tension to leave her face, but instead she almost seems to deflate. She absentmindedly rubs her thumb over your knuckles, lost in thought, somewhere far away. âI see.â Rhea sits there for a good moment before she shakes her head gently and lets go of your hand. âIâm sorry. I did not mean to overwhelm you.â
âItâs alright,â you say, and resist the impulse to touch her, to rest your palm on her shoulder, to softly brush your fingers against hers. Instead, you nervously thumb at the sheets with your uninjured hand, and lean towards her, trying to get her attention without startling her. âIt must get lonely, being someone like you.â
You see her mask slip for a second, just one second, but itâs one too many. The faint shadow of a grimace crosses her face, and compared to her usual calm restraint, itâs like sheâs been slapped across the face. The difference is so jarring you fear you mightâve overstepped, but as soon as it appeared, itâs gone, like shifting sand. The gentle smile is back, if a little somber.
âIt is,â she admits quietly, with a vulnerable tremor in her voice. You donât dare even breathe. âBut thatâs my burden to bear. Itâs a small price to pay for all I do.â
Lady Rhea falls silent, and after a moment, finishes treating your arm. She touches the tips of your fingers with hers, and then presses her palm against yours. The light grows brighter and then fades, until it disappears.
âAlright, try moving your arm.â
You do as youâre told and give your shoulder a roll. You lift your arm and curl your fingers into a fist, and then open them as wide as you can. Your mouth falls open in awe. Potent dark magic punched right through you at close range, Sothis knows you should at least need a sling for a few weeks, and yet you seem to have gotten off with a headache.
âItâsâ Itâs good as new, your ladyship,â you say, and move your awestruck gaze from your arm to look Lady Rhea directly in the eye. âThank you.â You search her face for a moment, looking for a trace of that deep sadness from before. You clear your throat, and continue: âI mean it. It means a lot to me that you would take time out of your day to tend to my injury. IâŚâ you trail off, and rub the back of your neck, nervous fingers searching for something to fidget with. âIâm very happy that youâre here.â
Lady Rheaâs eyes widen briefly, until her expression flowers into a smile that glows with such rich brilliance that it takes your breath away.
âYou are most welcome,â she says, and carefully lays her hand on your cheek. âBut I believe I should be thanking you.â
Heat crawls all the way to the tips of your ears and your mouth goes dry as you can only helplessly stare at Lady Rhea, so close and so impossibly kind. You return her smile and bow your head, knowing you canât speak if she keeps looking at you like that. âI wouldnât have had it any other way, my lady.â
Lady Rhea chuckles. The sound sends your heart racing like a comet rushing to meet the ground. She lets go of your cheek and stands up, straightening her robes and brushing off imaginary dust. She turns to the door, her hand placed over the handle, but she pauses.
âI hope we will meet again,â she says, âmy hero.â
The door closes behind her with a thud. You stare after her, sitting in silence as the seconds tick by.
jacobvanloon
areudirty
andulkaphoto
origamiaround